NOCTURNE  OF 
REMEMBERED  SPRING 


By  CONRAD  AIKEN 

NOCTURNE  OF  REMEMBERED  SPRING,  And  Other  Poems 
THE  JIG  OF  FORSLIN,  A  Symphony 
TURNS  AND  MOVIES,  And  Other  Tales  in  Verse 
EARTH   TRIUMPHANT,  And  Other   Tales  in   Verse 


NOCTURNE  OF 
REMEMBERED  SPRING 

AND   OTHER  POEMS 


By 
CONRAD    AIKEN 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1917 


Copyright,  1917  by 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 


The     Four     Seas     Press 
Boston,    Mass.,    U.    S.    A. 


PS  3501 
Klfc 


MAIM 


To 


4Ci6fc;j 


CONTENTS 

NOCTURNE  OF  REMEMBERED  SPRING  n 

MEDITATION  ON  A  JUNE  EVENING  18 

DISCORD  27 

1915:  THE  TRENCHES  30 

SONATA  IN  PATHOS  39 

WHITE  NOCTURNE  47 

NOCTURNE  IN  A  MINOR  KEY^  59 

EPISODE  IN  GREY  65 

\<\^ 

INNOCENCE  75 

:        ' 

DUST  IN  STARLIGHT  97 


NOCTURNE  OF  REMEMBERED 
SPRING 

i. 

Moonlight  silvers  the  ghostly  tops  of  trees, 
Moonlight  whitens  the  lilac-shadowed  wall ; 
And  through  the  soft-starred  evening  fall 
Clearly  as  if  through  enchanted  seas 
Footsteps  passing,  an  infinite  distance  away, 
In  another  world  and  another  day.. 
/^"Moonlight  turns  the  purple  lilacs- -to  blue, 

•  Moonlight  leaves  the  fountain  hoar  and  old, 
1   Moonlight  whitens  the  sleepy  dew, 

And  the  boughs  of  elms  grow  green  and  cold. .  . 

-  Our  footsteps  echo  on  gleaming  stones, 

The  leaves  are  stirred  to  a  jargon  of  muted  tones 
This  is  the  night  we  have  kept,  you  say : 
This  is  the  moonlight  night  that  never  will  die ... 
Let  us  return  there,  let  us  return,  you  and  I, — 
Through  the  grey  streets  our  memories  retain 
Let  us  go  back  again. 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

ii. 

Mist  goes  up  from  the  river  to  dim  the  stars, 
The  river  is  black  and  cold;  so  let  us  dance 
To  a  tremor  of  violins  and  troubled  guitars, 
And  flare  of  horns,  and  clang  of  cymbals,  and  drums ; 
And  strew  the  glimmering  floor  with  petals  of  roses 
And  remember,  while  rich  music  yawns  and  closes, 
With  a  luxury  of  pain,  how  silence  comes. .  . 
Yes,  we  have  loved  each  other,  long  ago, 
We  moved  like  wind  to  a  music's  ebb  and  flow. . . 
At  a  phrase  from  the  violins  you  closed  your  eyes, 
And  smiled,  and  let  me  lead  you  .  .  .  how  young  we 

were ! 

Waves  of  music  beneath  us  .dizzied --tcTfise  .  .  . 
Your  hair,  upon  that  music,  seemed  to  stir  .  .  . 
Let  us  return  there,  let  us  return,  you  and  I, 
Through  changeless  streets  our  memories  retain, 
Let  us  go  back  again. 


in. 

Mist  goes  up  from  the  rain-steeped  earth,  and  clings 
Ghostly  with  lamplight  among  drenched  maple  trees, 
We  walk  in  silence  and  see  how  the  lamplight  flings 

[12] 


Nocturne   of.  Remembered   Spring 

Fans  of  shadow  upon  it. .  .the  music's  mournful  pleas 

Die  out  behind  us,  the  door  is  closed  at  last, 

A  net  of  silver  silence  is  softly  cast 

Over  our  dreams  .  .  .  slowly  and  softly  we  walk, 

Quietly,  with  delicious  pause,  we  talk, 

Of  foolish  trivial  things,  of  life  and  death, 

Time,  and  forgetfulness,  and  dust  and  truth, 

^.v-        « 

Lilacs  and  youth. 


Yoljflaugh,  I  hear  the  after-taken  breath, 

You  darken  your  eyes,  and  turn  away  your  head, 

At  something  I  have  said — 

Some  tremulous  intuition  that  flew  too  deep, 

And  struck  a  plangent  chord .  .  .  to-night,  to-night, 

You  will  remember  it  as  you  fall  asleep, 

Your    dream    will     suddenly    blossom     with     sharp 

delight..  . 

Good-night!  you  say.  . . 
The  leaves  of  the  lilac  softly  dip  and  sway, 
The  purple  spikes  of  bloom 
Nod  their  sweetness  upon  us,  and  lift  again, 
Your  white  face  turns  away,  I  am  caught  with  pain, — 
And  silence  descends.  .  .and  the  dripping  of  dew  from 

the  eaves 
And  jewelled  points  of  leaves. 

[13] 


Nocturne   of  Remembered   Spring 

IV. 

-  I  walk  in  a  pleasure  of  sorrow  along  the  street 
And  try  to  remember  you  .  .  .  the  slow  drops  patter, 
The  mist  upon  the  lilacs  has  made  them  sweet, 

J"    I  brush  them  with  my  sleeve,  the  cool  drops  scatter, 
And  suddenly  I  laugh .  .  .  and  stand  and  listen 
As  if  another  had  laughed.  .  .a  fragrant  gust 
Rustles  the  laden  leaves,  the  wet  spikes  glisten, 
A  shower  of  drops  goes  down  on  stones  and  dust. 

f' 'And  it  seems  as  though  it  were  you  who  had  shaken 

the  bough, 

And  spilled  the  fragrance — I  pursue  your  face  again, 
It  grows  more  vague  and  lovely,  it  eludes  me  now. .  . 
I  remember  that  you  are  gone,  and  drown  in  pain.  .  . 
Something  there  was  I  said  to  you,  I  recall, 
Something,  just  as  the  music  seemed  to  fall, 
That    made    you    laugh,    and    burns    me    still    with 

pleasure . .  . 
What    were    the    words — the    words    like    dripping 

fire?... 

I  remember  them  now,  and  smile,  and  in  sweet  leisure 
Rehearse  the  scene,  more  exquisite  than  before, 
And  you  more  beautiful,  and  I  more  wise. .  . 
Lilacs  and  spring,  and  night,  and  your  clear  eyes, 

[14] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

And  you,  in  white,  by  the  darkness  of  a  door. .  . 
These  things,  like  voices  weaving  to  richest  music, 
Flow  and  fall  in  the  cool  night  of  my  mind, 
I    pursue    your  ghost    among   green    leaves    that  are 

ghostly, 

I  pursue  you,  but  cannot  find . .  . 
And  suddenly,  with  a  pang  that  is  sweetest  of  all, 
I  become  aware  that  I  cannot  remember  you ; 
The  beautiful  ghost  I  knew 
Has  silently  plunged  in   the   shadows,   shadows  that 

stream  and  fall. 

v. 

Let  us  go  in  and  dance  once  more 

On  the  dream's  glimmering  floor, 

Beneath  the  balcony  festooned  with  roses. 

Let  us  go  in  and  dance  once  more .  .  . 

The  door  behind  us  closes 

Against  an  evening  purple  with  stars  and  mist . .  . 

Let  us  go  in  and  keep  our  tryst 

With  music  and  white  roses,  and  spin  around 

In  lazy  swirls  of  sound. 

Do  you  foresee  me,  married  and  grown  old  ? .  .  . 

And  you,  who  smile  about  you  at  this  room 

[15] 


Nocturne   of  Remembered   Spring 

Dizzy  with  whirling  dancers — is  it  foretold 
That  you  must  step  from  tumult  into  a  gloom, 
Forget  me,  love  another,  grow  white  and  cold? 

•. 

No,  you  are  Cleopatra,  fiercely  young, 

Laughing  upon  the  topmost  stair  of  night; 

Roses  upon  the  desert  must  be  flung, 

It  is  your  wish. .  .Above  us,  light  by  light, 

Weaves  the  delirious  darkness,  petals  fall, 

They  fall  upon  your  jewelled  hands,  they  tremble  upon 

your  hair, — 

And  music  breaks  in  waves  on  the  pillared  wall, 
And  you  are  Cleopatra,  and  do  not  care .  . . 
And  so,  in  memory,  you  will  always  be — 
Young  and  foolish,  a  thing  of  dream  and  mist; 
And  so,  perhaps,  when  all  is  disillusioned, 
And  eternal  spring  returns  once  more, 
Bringing  a  ghost  of  lovelier  springs  remembered, 
You  will  remember  me. 

VI. 

Yet  when  we  meet  we  seem  in  silence  to  say, 
Pretending  serene  forgetfulness  of  our  youth, 
•     'Do  you   remember  .    .   .   but  then   why   should  you 
remember!  .  .  . 

[16] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

Do  you  remember,  a  certain  day, 
Or  evening  rather, — spring  evening  long  ago, — 
We  talked  of  death,  and  love,  and  time,  and  truth.  .  . 
I?  And   said   such  wise   things,   things   that   amused  us 

so...? 

'  How    foolish   we    were,    who    thought   ourselves    so 
wise !' — 

, 

And  then  we  laugh,  with  shadows  in  our  eyes. 


MEDITATION  ON  A  JUNE  EVENING 

i. 

As  evening  comes,  my  thoughts  turn  back  to  you. 
Darkness  is  slanting  through  the  eastern  streets. 
The  lamps  are  watting.    The  wry- faced  moon  repeats 
Her  vain  nocturnal  pose. 

The  lovers  loiter  to  choose  their  favorite  seats. 
Across  the  lamplit  grass,  a  paper  blows. 
My  thoughts  turn  back  to  you, 
Like  tired  music  in  a  tired  brain 
Seeking  solution  in  the  worn  refrain ; 
It  returns,  it  returns, 

It  climbs  and  falls,  struggles,  disintegrates, 
Is  querulous,  resentful,  states,  restates; 
But  always,  like  one  haunted,  comes  again 
To  that  one  phrase  of  pain; 
And  that  one  phrase,  you  know  as  well  as  I, 
Is  the  remembered  pallor  of  your  face ; 
And  a  certain  silence,  and  a  certain  sky, 
And  a  certain  place. .  . 

[18] 


Meditation  on  a  June  Evening 

.  .  .  (Why  must  he  say  these  things?    He  was  at  fault, 

He  misconceived  me. .  .as  well  he  knows. .  . 

If  he  would  only  be  silent  and  let  things  rest! 

If  he  could  only  see  how  slight  it  is, 

The  foolish  boy !  and  everything  for  the  best .  .  . ) 


I  know  you'll  say  'to  think  these  things  is  useless ; ' 

But  music,  then,  is  useless  too. 

Music  persuades  and  captures  the  subtlest  air. .  . 

As  evening  comes,  my  thoughts  turn  back  to  you. 

Perhaps  I  misconceived  you.    You  did  not  know— 

How  could  you  know?     for  none  had  ever  told  you — 

That  if  you  laughed  or  looked  in  such  a  way, 

Letting  the  deep-seen  challenge  play 

A  shade  too  long, — letting  it  linger  so 

Like  a  glimpse  of  sky  between  the  clouds, — 

You  did  not  know,  we'll  say, 

That  I  should  misinterpret  this,  believe 

More  meant  than  was  intended ;  you  did  not  know 

That  I  would  be  so  conscious  of  these  things, 

So  desperately  conscious,  like  one  who  clings 

To  the  merest  shade  of  meaning,  shadow  of  tone.  .  . 

And  of  course  you  would  not  wilfully  deceive  .  .  . 

[19] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

ii. 

You're  leaning,  I'll  suppose,  out  of  your  window, — 
Watching  that  moon  swimming  above  the  rooftops, 
Slipping  through  restless  boughs  of  trees ; 
You  smile  a  little,  as  I  have  often  seen  you  ; 
Smiling  because  you  know  how  nights  like  these, 
With  all  that's  sorrowful  in  them,  and  spacious,  and 

gay, 

Are  foolish  ripples  which  time  will  smooth  away. 
Your  smile  is  bitter.  .  .1  have  tasted  it. .  . 
It  is  the  smile  of  one  who  secretly  cries. 
Yes,  I  remember  it  now,  it  is  exquisite  ; 
A  passionate  plea  for  all  that  dies, 
Twisted  to  irony,  tortured  to  silent  pain .  .  . 
You  would  like  this  night  to  come  again ; 
You  would  like  to  hear  this  music  played  once  more, — 
To  tease  the  secret  out  of  a  certain  refrain, 
To  snare  it  among  the  outspread  nerves,  and  see 
What  was  its  pleasure  .  .  ,    And  that  refrain  meant  .  .  . 

me?. .  . 

We  have  walked  together  against  the  evening  sun, 
Weaving  with  words  a  music  for  the  flesh . .  . 
Your  eyes  deny  me,  that  episode  is  done. 

[20] 


Meditation  on  a  June  Evening 

in. 

I  could  indict  you,  oh,  on  many  counts: 
To  watch  the  sunlit  shallows  of  your  eyes 
Darken  and  deepen  with  surprise. 
Raindrops,  falling  on  water,  are  ringed  with  ripples : 
Each  perfect  ring  dilates  and  dies. 

• 

And  so,  though  I  might  prove  my  charge  against  you, 

My  words  would  die  upon  you,  like  drops  of  rain, 

You  would  as  sweetly  mirror  the  sky  again .  .  . 

It  is  no  use  to  close  my  eyes,  and  say 

'On  such  and  such  a  day 

Reading  from  such  a  book,  on  such  a  page, 

Smiling,  you  leaned,  and  let  your  body  rest 

Trembling  on  mine,  leaning  your  breast 

Softly  against  my  arm ;  until  my  veins 

Cried  out  with  music ;  it  is  no  use,  no  use, 

To  say  you  could  not  know,  you  could  not  guess 

That  brush  of  your  hand  against  my  hand, 

Touch  of  your  dress, 

Or  dark  eyes  peering  closely  to  understand, 

Or  idle  question  pitched  in  intimate  tone, — 

It  is  no  use  to  say,  if  you  had  known 

What  death  was  in  these  things, 

I  should  have  not  been  spun  in  music,  or  caught 

[21] 


Nocturne   of  Remembered   Spring 

To    stare,    and    question,    and    riddle    the    whole    to 

nought  .  .  .' 

. .  .Why  do  I  say  these  words?  You  do  not  hear  them. 
Like  ghosts  of  remembered  music,  they  rise  unsought. 


(Poor  boy!  he  was  so  nice  about  it,  too — 

So  sweet  and  foolish!    I'm  sorry  it  should  be  so. 

But  what  can  a  woman  do?) 


Y 


You  tell  me  you  are  sorry — and  as  you  say  it 

Your  caught  voice  breaks,  you  turn  away  from  me, 

But  not  too  soon  for  me  to  see 

One  instant,  in  your  eyes, 

Far  snow-peaks  melting  under  sunny  skies.  . 

You  tear  a  leaf,  turn  back  to  me  and  smile, 

Remembering  our  youth.    But  this  was  strange, 

This  quiet  change, 

And  as  we  talk,  striving  to  seem  at  ease, 

To  ignore  the  ghost  of  love  that  walks  between  us, 

Each  little  while 

[22] 


Meditation  on  a  June  Evening 

That  look  returns,  I  am  like  one  who  sees 

A  face  somehow  familiar,  somehow  strange, 

Glimpsed  in  a  crowd;  who  does  not  know 

If  it  were  seen  before,  or  only  dreamed, 

Or  who  it  is ...  Does  pity  tremble  so  ? ... 

Or  was  it,  after  all,  what  all  these  musings 

Have  sought,  like  restless  music,  to  approach, — 

Regret,  and  self-reproach?. .  . 

And,  if  it  were  this,  if  it  were  really  true 

That  you  had  teased  your  body  with  my  presence, 

Played  upon  me,  that  you  might  thereby  play 

Deep  music  on  yourself.  .  .is  this  too  late  to  say? 

Is  there  still  time?    Could  I  yet  capture  you? 

Would  you  admit  you  loved  me,  if  you  knew? 

Was  it  a  sign  that  I  might  yet  demand, 

Where  asking  was  in  vain  ? .  .  . 

These  things  are  difficult  to  understand: 

This  may  be  real,  or  a  grotesque  in  my  brain .  .  . 

A  grain  of  sand 

I 

May  seem  a  desert,  stared  at  long  enough : 
Eyes  too  intent  see  blots  and  parallels. 
Tremendous  heavens  peal  in  a  scale  of  laughter, 
A  sidelong  smile  divulges  smoking  hells... 

[23] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

IV. 

It  is  strange,  when  all  is  done,  when  all  our  talk  is 

done, 

That  of  all  these  years  only  such  trivial  things 
Should  so  live  on. .  .these  foolish  trivial  themes, 
Persisting  and  persisting, 

Like  the  inconsequent  words  we  say  in  dreams. 
We  sit  at  tea ;  a  gesture  of  your  hand, 
Touches  your  throat,  light  gleams  across  your  eyes; 
In  casual  intimate  tone  I  hear  you  say 
'How  odd  that  you  should  think  to  come  to-day. . . 
What  prompted  it,  I  wonder?' — the  words  return 
Foolish,  indeed,  but  old  with  mystery, 
Precious,  because,  in  spite  of  all,  they  live 
And  have  some  secret  of  you  yet  to  give. . . 
It  is  as  if  I  visited  once  more 
A  house  I  lived  in  once,  now  tenantless; 
Or  walked  in  a  glare  of  noon  along  a  shore 
Where  as  a  boy  I  played. .  .the  rippled  sands, 
Pebbles  wet  with  the  tide, 
Old  grey  boards,  the  purple  vetch  that  crawls 
Among  dry  matted  weeds  and  shells  and  grass, 
Bottles,  and  crooked  sticks,  and  broken  glass, 
Beach  plums  and  tumbled  walls — 

1*4] 


Meditation  on  a  June  Evening 

They  are  like  ghosts  returned  by  light  of  day, 

I  stare  at  them,  I  touch  them  with  my  hands, 

And  listen,  to  learn  what  secret  it  is  they  say.  . . 

And  I  remember,  on  a  certain  night . .  . 

It  was  raining. .  .we  heard  the  sound  of  rain.  .  . 

And  someone,  some  neighbor,  was  playing  a  violin, — 

Playing  the  same  thing  over  and  over  and  over, 

Remote,  uneasy,  like  one  who  tries  to  explain, 

Playing  it  into  the  flesh,  playing  it  into  the  brain .  .  . 

Why  do  these  phantom  hands,  these  faces,  rise 

Soon  as  I  close  my  eyes? 

I  turn,  but  cannot  escape,  they  follow  me, 

They  beckon  to  me,  the  sad  mouths  open  to  speak, 

The  sad  procession  passes  changelessly.  .  . 

Someone,  some  neighbor,  was  playing  a  violin, 

Playing  the  same  tune  over  and  over  and  over.  .  . 

Will  the  quiet  never  begin  ? .  .  . 


V. 

The  wry- faced  moon  goes  leering  up  the  sky. 
The  roofs  are  shiny,  the  fountain  shoots  and  falls 
Against  the  stars,  ringed  with  a  ring  of  foam. 
The  stars  are  tittering  in  the  skies . . . 

[25] 


Nocturne   of  Remembered   Spring 

Inquisitive  trees  lean  over  the  ghostly  walls, 

Glistening  leaves  like  eyes 

Fasten  upon  me  to  ask  their  ceaseless  question. 

My  thoughts  turn  back  to  you 

Like  tired  music  in  a  tired  brain 

Seeking  solution  in  the  worn  refrain; 

It  returns,  it  returns, 

Climbs,  and  falls,  struggles,  disintegrates, 

Is  querulous,  resentful,  states,  restates; 

But  always,  like  one  haunted,  comes  again 

To  that  one  phrase  of  pain. 

And  that  one  phrase,  you  know  as  well  as  I, 

Is  the  remembered  beauty  of  your  face, 

And  a  certain  silence,  and  a  certain  sky, 

And  a  certain  place. 


[26] 


DISCORD 

The  hurdy-gurdy  sings  in  the  golden  morning; 

In  the  hazy  morning, 

It  sings  to  the  budding  trees,  and  creeps  away. 

Children  take  hands  and  play, 

Sparrows  whir  upward  from  the  dusty  street; 

But  all  that  the  music  seems,  somehow,  to  say 

Is  'Death  is  hiding  among  the  cherry  blossoms: 

The  eyes  of  death  look  out  through  cherry  blossoms ; 

Death's  hand  is  on  the  bough  and  makes  it  sweet/ 


In  the  quiet  of  morning, 

The  silver  music  plays  among  the  trees ; 

It  dances  over  the  sunlit  stones, 

It  is  blown  like  rain,  it  is  silent,  it  sings  again, 

It  is  scattered  and  spilled  like  petals  upon  a  breeze  .  .  . 

The  sunlight  swirls  and  shatters  in  broad  cascades, 

But  somehow  all  the  music  seems  to  sing 

A  sinister  thing — • 

That  death  is  moving  among  the  cool  white  blossoms, 

[27] 


Nocturne   of  Remembered   Spring 

Peering  out  through  the  blossoms  with  yellow  eyes, 
That  the  shadow  of  death  is  blue  in  the  golden  sun 
light; 
Blue  in  the  sun  it  lies. 


Over  the  cold  fields  and  the  cold  new  grass 

Cloud-shadows  silently  blow  and  pass; 

And  the    shadows  of    clouds  are    blue,    of    changing 

shape. 

Shadows  of  trees  are  huddled  by  gusty  wind, 
They  crouch,  they  hurry,  they  whirl,  they  half  escape. 
And  as  the  music,  stealing  down  cold  air, 
Creeps  to  the  heart  again, 
To  whisper  a  suddenly  flowering  pain : 
The  lover  leans  to  her  lover,  and  over  his  eyes 
Sees  something  pass,  something  remote  and  blue, 
Like  a  cold  cloud  silently  blowing  across  cold  skies  .  .  . 
And  the  music  rising  on  air,  so  slowly  to  drift  away, 
Like  one  grown  tired  at  length,  desiring  rest, 
Seems  only  to  say 

'Blue  death  is  hiding  among  the  cherry  blossoms, 
Parting  the  blossoms  with  white  and  silent  hands, 
To  look  at  the  world,  and  smile,  and  creep  away.' 

[28] 


Discord 

The  snowdrops  shake  their  bells  against  the  grass. 

The  yellow  crocus  quivers  and  then  is  still. 

But  it  is  not  the  breeze  that  sets  them  nodding, 

Not  the  wind,  that  makes  them  spill 

The  gliding  silver  raindrop  in  the  sun : 

It  was  the  green  and  purple  sinuous  one, 

It  was  the  one  with  small  red  upward  eyes; 

Slowly  breathing  among  the  leaves  he  lies, 

Slowly  pushing  against  the  delicate  stems, 

Drawing  his  silvered  coils 

Through  tremulous  clover  and  cinquefoils.  .  . 

What  was  the  echo  heard,  then,  as  we  fled? 

What  was  it  the  music  said? 

Something  about  a  ghost  that  smiled  through  flowers, 

A  ghost  who  chilled  us,  a  ghost  of  icy  music, — 

And  cheny  blossoms  crowding  to  hide  the  dead. 


[29] 


1915:  THE  TRENCHES 

i. 

All  night  long,  it  has  seemed  for  many  years, 

We  have  heard  the  terrible  sound  of  guns, 

All  night  long  we  have  lain  and  watched  the  calm  stars. 

We  cannot  sleep,  though  we  are  tired, 

The  sound  of  guns  is  in  our  ears, 

We  are  growing  old  and  grey, 

We  have  forgotten  many  simple  things. 

Is  this  you?  Is  this  I? 

Will  the  word  come  to  charge  to-day?.  .  . 

All  night  long,  all  night  long, 

We  listen  and  cannot  close  our  eyes, 

We  see  the  ring  of  violet  flashes 

Endlessly  darting  against  the  skies, 

We  feel  the  firm  earth  shake  beneath  us, 

And  all  the  world  we  have  walked  upon 

Crumbles  to  nothing,  crumbles  to  chaos, 

Crumbles  to  incoherent  dust ; 

[30] 


1915 :  The  Trenches 

Till  it  seems  we  can  never  walk  again, 

That  it  is  foolish  to  have  feet,  foolish  to  be  men, 

Foolish  to  think,  foolish  to  have  such  brains, 

And  useless  to  remember 

The  world  we  came  from, 

The  world  we  never  shall  see  again.  .  . 

All  night  long  we  lie  this  way, 

We  cannot  talk,  I  look  to  see  what  you  are  thinking, 

And  you,  and  you, — 

We  are  all  thinking,  'Will  it  come  to-day?' 

Get  your  bayonets  ready,  then — 

See  that  they  are  sharp  and  bright, 

See  that  they  have  thirsty  edges, 

Remember  that  we  are  savage  men, 

Motherless  men  who  have  no  past.  . 

Nothing  of  beauty  to  call  to  mind, 

No  tenderness  to  stay  our  hands. .  . 

.  .  .We  are  tired,  we  have  thought  all  this  before, 

W^e  have  seen  it  all  and  thought  it  all, 

Our  thumbs  are  calloused  with  feeling  the  bayonet's 

edge, 

We  have  known  it  all  and  felt  it  all 
Till  we  can  know  no  more. 

[31] 


Nocturne   of  Remembered  Spring 

ii. 

All  night  long  we  lie 

Stupidly  watching  the  smoke  puff  over  the  sky, 
Stupidly  watching  the  interminable  stars 
Come  out  again,  peaceful  and  cold  and  high, 
Swim  into  the  smoke  again,  or  melt  in  a  flare  of  red.  .  . 
All  night  long,  all  night  long, 
Hearing  the  terrible  battle  of  guns, 
We  smoke  our  pipes,  we  think  we  shall  soon  be  dead, 
We  sleep  for  a  second,  and  wake  again, 
We  dream  we  are  filling  pans  and  baking  bread, 
Or  hoeing  the  witch-grass  out  of  the  wheat, 
We  dream  we  are  turning  lathes, 
Or  open  our  shops,  in  the  early  morning, 
And  look  for  a  moment  along  the  quiet  street  .  .  . 
And  we  do  not  laugh,  though  it  is  strange 
In  a  harrowing  second  of  time 
To  traverse  so  many  worlds,  so  many  ages, 
And  come  to  this  chaos  again, 
This  vast  symphonic  dance  of  death, 
This  incoherent  dust. 


[32] 


1915 :  The  Trenches 

in. 

We  are  growing  old,  we  are  older  than  the  stars : 
You  whom  I  knew  a  moment  ago 
Have  walked  through  ages  of  silence  since  then, 
Memory  is  forsaking  me, 
I  no  longer  know 

If  we  are  one  or  two  or  the  blades  of  the  grass. .  . 
All  night  long,  lying  together, 
We  think  in  caverns  of  dreadful  sound, 
We  grope  among  falling  boulders, 
We  are  overtaken  and  crushed,  we  rise  once  more, 
Performing,  wearily, 
The    senseless   things   we    have    performed    so    often 

before. 

Yesterday  is  coming  again, 
Yesterday  arid  the  day  before, 
And  a  million  others,  all  alike,  one  by  one, 
Sulphurous  clouds  and  a  red  sun, 
Sulphurous  clouds  and  a  yellow  moon, 
And  a  cold  drizzle  of  endless  rain 
Driving  across  them,  wetting  the  barrels  of  guns, 
Dripping,  soaking,  pattering,  slipping, 
Chilling  our  hands,  numbing  our  feet, 
Glistening  on  our  chins. 

[33] 


Nocturne   of  Remembered   Spring 

And  then,  all  over  again,  after  grey  ages, 

Sulphurous  clouds  and  a  red  sun, 

Sulphurous  clouds  and  a  yellow  moon . .  . 

I  had  my  childhood  once,  now  I  have  children, 

A  boy  who  is  learning  to  read,  a  girl  who  is  learning 

to  sew, 

And  my  wife  has  brown  hair  and  blue  eyes. . . 
Our  parapet  is  blown  away, 
Blown  away  by  a  gust  of  sound, 
Dust  is  falling  upon  us,  blood  is  dripping  upon  us, 
We  are  standing  somewhere  between  earth  and  stars, 
Not  knowing  if  we  are  alive  or  dead. . . 
All  night  long  it  is  so, 

All  night  long  we  hear  the  guns,  and  do  not  know 
If  the  word  will  come  to  charge  to-day. 


IV. 

It  will  be  like  that  other  charge — 

We  will  climb  out  and  run 

Yelling  like  madmen  in  the  sun 

Running  stiffly  on  the  scorched  dust 

Hardly  hearing  our  voices 

Running  after  the  man  who  points  with  his  hand 

[34] 


1915 :  The  Trenches 

At  a  certain  shattered  tree, 

Running  through  sheets  of  fire  like  idiots, 

Sometimes  falling,  sometimes  rising. 

I  will  not  remember,  then, 

How  I  walked  by  a  hedge  of  wild  roses, 

And  shook  the  dew  off,  with  my  sleeve, 

I  will  not  remember 

The  shape  of  my  sweetheart's  mouth,  but  with  other 

things 

Ringing  like  anvils  in  my  brain 
I  will  run,  I  will  die,  I  will  forget. 
I  will  hear  nothing,  and  forget.  .  . 
I  will  remember  that  we  are  savage  men, 
Motherless  men  who  have  no  past, 
Nothing  of  beauty  to  call  to  mind 
No  tenderness  to  stay  our  hands.  .  . 


v. 

We  are  tired,  we  have  thought  all  this  before, 
We  have  seen  it  all,  and  thought  it  all. 
We  have  tried  to  forget,  we  have  tried  to  change, 
We  have  struggled  to  climb  an  invisible  wall, 

[35] 


Nocturne   of  Remembered   Spring 

But  if  we  should  climb  it,  could  we  ever  return? 

We  have  known  it  all,  and  felt  it  all 

Till  we  can  know  no  more . .  . 

Let  us  climb  out  and  end  it,  then, 

Lest  it  become  immortal. 

Let  us  climb  out  and  end  it,  then, 

Just  for  the  change .  .  . 

This  is  the  same  night,  still,  and  you,  and  I, 

Struggling  to  keep  our  feet  in  a  chaos  of  sound. 

And  the  same  puff  of  smoke 

Passes,  to  leave  the  same  stars  in  the  sky. 


VI. 

Out  there,  in  the  moonlight, 

How  still  in  the  grass  they  lie, 

Those  who  panted  beside  us,  or  stumbled  before  us, 

Those  who  yelled  like  madmen  and  ran  at  the  sun, 

Flinging  their  guns  before  them. 

One  of  them  stares  all  day  at  the  sky 

As  if  he  had  seen  some  strange  thing  there, 

One  of  them  tightly  holds  his  gun 

As  if  he  dreaded  a  danger  there, 

[36] 


:  The  Trenches 


One  of  them  stoops  above  his  friend, 
By  moon  and  sun  we  see  him  there. 
One  of  them  saw  white  cottage  walls 
With  purple  clematis  flowers  and  leaves, 
And  heard  through  trees  his  waterfalls 
And  whistled  under  the  eaves; 
One  of  them  walked  on  yellow  sand 
And  watched  a  young  girl  gathering  shells- 
Once,  a  white  wave  caught  her  hand  .  .  . 
One  of  them  heard  how  certain  bells 
Chimed  in  a  valley,  mellow  and  slow, 
Just  as  he  turned  to  go.  .  . 


VII. 

All  night  long,  all  night  long, 
We  see  them  and  do  not  remember  them, 
We  hear  the  terrible  sounds  of  guns, 
We  see  the  white  rays  darting  and  darting, 
We  are  beaten  down  and  crawl  to  our  feet, 
We  wipe  the  dirt  from  mouths  and  eyes, 
Dust-colored  animals  creeping  in  dust, 
Animals  stupefied  by  sound; 

[37] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

We  are  beaten  down,  and  some  of  us  rise, 
And  some  become  a  part  of  the  ground, 
But  what  do  we  care  ?  we  never  knew  them, 
Or  if  we  did  it  was  long  ago. . . 
Night  will  end  in  a  year  or  so, 
We  look  at  each  other  as  if  to  say, 
Across  the  void  of  time  between  us, 
'Will  the  word  come  to-day?' 


[38] 


SONATA  IN  PATHOS 

'J 

Well,  I  am  tired . . .  tired  of  all  these  years, 

The  hazy  mornings,  the  noons,  the  misty  evenings, 

Tired  of  the  spring,  tired  of  the  fall ; 

The  music  starts  again,  I  have  heard  it  all, 

I  cannot  escape,  it  whispers  in  my  ears. .  . 

I  have  pursued  you  in  so  many  places, 

In  a  thousand  times,  with  a  thousand  wistful  faces, 

I  have  pursued  you  so  many  times  in  vain . .  . 

Wherever  I  turn  you  rise  in  the  shadows  again, 

Wherever  I  turn  you  are  smiling  there, 

Touching  the  one  white  rose  that  stars  your  hair. 

Why  do  you  follow  me,  why  do  you  seek  me, 

Why  do  you  rouse  strange  music  in  my  heart? 

You  laugh  and  enter  the  shadows  and  change  once 

more, 

You  step  transformed  from  a  lamplit  door, 
You  touch  my  arm  and  silently  vanish  away . .  . 
Why  do  you  never  stay  ? . . . 

[39] 


Nocturne   of  Remembered   Spring 

Only  this  afternoon,  this  rainy  afternoon, 

There,  in  the  darkness,  where  I  listened  to  music, 

You  came  and  sat  beside  me,  with  golden  hair; 

Were  you  the  music  itself,  come  to  betray  me? 

For  the  music  stopped,  and  you  were  no  longer  there ; 

And  I  sought  in  the  darkness  for  you,  and  touched  but 

darkness, 

Reached  out  my  hands  and  touched  but  air. 
And  suddenly,  in  the  evening,  you  came  again, 
Sombre,  in  silver  rain, 
And  drew  the  darkness  about  you,  and  the  gleam  of 

lights.  .  . 
Where  have  you  gone?    Through  what  succession  of 

nights 

Must  I  pursue  you  from  place  to  place, 
And  face  to  face? 

You  are  like  music,  forever  moving  and  changing, 
Forever  weaving  a  lovelier  melody . .  . 
You  are  like  music,  weaving  and  interweaving; 
You  plead  and  sing,  but  will  not  wait  for  me. 
I  have  touched  the  moonlight  whiteness  of  your  hands, 
I  have  walked  with  you  by  the  moonlight  sea, 
We  have  sat  and  watched  the  waves  slide  up  white 

sands, 

[40] 


Sonata  in  Pathos 

The  waves  that  whispered  at  you  and  me ; 

And  the  dark  hair,  the  blue-black  hair  like  midnight, 

And  the  soft  bright  golden  hair, 

And  the  hair  that  ripples  like  sun  on  moving  water, 

And  the  hair  that  is  lighter  than  melody  on  soft  air, 

I  have  known  and  touched  them  all,  I  have  loved  them  all, 

I  have  played  a  ghostly  music  upon  them, 

I  have  played  a  starlight  magic  upon  them,  and  held 

them,  and  let  them  fall. 

You,  the  white-breasted  one  who  danced  before  me, 
Bearing  narcissus  in  your  hands ; 
You  with  the  mouth  like  jasper,  you  with  the  feet  like 

snow .  .  . 

I  have  loved  you  all,  I  have  loved  you  long  ago, 
But  you  have  faded  before  me,  and  left  me  nothing, 
And  the  caress  of  hands,  the  lips,  the  sighs, 
The  starless  night  of  darkened  eyes, 
White  throats  that  filled  with  laughter,— 
They  have  perished  like  music  that  leaves  no  echo 

after.  . . 

I  cannot  remember  the  softness  of  a  kiss, 
The  fleeting  warmth  of  a  breath. 
The  evening  falls,  and  brings  me  only  this, — 
The  melancholy  of  some  forgotten  death. 

[41] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

n. 

The  naked  elms  that  lift  their  writhing  branches 
In  sinister  patterns  against  the  twilight  sky, 
They  are  monstrous  corals  in  the  coldness  of  an  ocean ; 
And  beneath  them  strange  things  creep  and  die. 
I  am  tired,  I  have  come  a  long  way  from  the  sun, 
I  have  forgotten  the  wind  on  hills  of  blue. 
I  walk  in  the  twilight,  under  strange  black  branches, 
And  try  in  vain  to  remember  a  face  I  knew. 
My  soul  is  green  with  cold  sea-slime, 
The  slime  of  graceless  lusts  and  awkward  loves. .  . 
I  would  like  to  climb  these  frozen  corals,  climb 
To  the  shining  waves  where  a  bright  wind  moves. .  . 
I  would  like  to  climb  these  cold  black  boughs,  and  see 
A  star  above  the  waters. .  .But  can  that  be?. . . 
You  who  have  sought  me,  whom  I  have  sought  so 

often, — 

Come  down  to  me ! 

I  would  like  to  rise  to  a  room  where  yellow  candles 
Shine  in  a  golden  row : 

I  would  like  to  sit  with  you,  and  hear  soft  music 
Intensely  and  persuasively  flow  .  .  . 
I  would  like  to  hear  you  talking  of  simple  things, 

[42] 


Sonata  in  Pathos 

Of  the  leaves  that  hang  on  trees  and  softly  fall : 
I  would  like  to  have  your  hands  touch  mine  like  wings, 
And  see  your  face,  so  white  and  young  and  fragile, 
Against  the  golden  darkness  of  a  wall. .  . 


in. 

This  is  the  picture  of  you  who  died  so  young — 
You,  whose  dreams  were  the  quietness  of  music, 
Whose  life  was  a  music  abruptly  brought  to  an  end. 
I  hold  the  candle  above  you,  and  search  the  shadows. 
You  would  have  been  my  friend,  my  more  than  friend. 
I  never  saw  you.    But  holding  the  candle  above  you, 
Striving  to  find  the  secret  that  lights  your  face, 
Something,  some  music,  comes  over  me,  and  I  love 

you, 

I  desire  to  touch  you,  I  desire  to  change  this  place 
From  a  room  with  candles,  and  a  faded  picture, 
To  a  room  with  you,  a  living  music,  there, — 
You,  with  the  dark  strange  eyes  and  sombre  depth  of 

hair. 
You,  the  clear-browed — what  are  you  wondering  of 

[43] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

That  gives  your  innocent  eyes  the  dusk  of  love? 
What  is  the  music  dreaming  behind  your  mouth? 
Your  lips  are  closed   for  a  moment,  you  hold  your 

breath, 

Waiting  for  your  first  kiss,  the  mouth  of  death.  .  . 
And  your  young  body,  your  young  white  body,  is  dead ; 
And  covered  with  earth;  and  turned  to  leaves;  and 

fallen  to  earth  again. 
And  the  music  you  dreamed  is  gone.    And  your  swift 

steps  are  gone. 

And  the  wind  blows  over  you ;  and  the  ghostly  rain .  .  . 
I  will  walk  where  you  have  walked,  and  think  of  you ; 
And  search  on  the  earth  for  the  music  that  you 

knew . .  . 

Yes,  you  are  one  more  whom  I  have  sought  in  vain ; 
One  who  has  beckoned  to  me  and  vanished  away; 
One  who  has  gone  and  will  not  come  again, 
One  who  came,  but  would  not  stay. 
Why  must  the  music  move?    Why  will  it  never  rest? 
\Vhy  will  it  never  meet  me,  breast  to  breast? 
Perhaps  it  is  death  alone  whom  I  shall  love, — 
Death  alone  who  will  cling  to  me,  never  to  let  me  move. 


[44] 


Sonata  in  Pathos 

',        • . 

IV. 

Slow  steps  pass  in  the  evening. .  .slow  steps  echo  and 

pass, 

Like  my  own  steps  returning  from  other  years  ; 
It  is  I,  perhaps,  pursuing  the  ghost  of  a  dream, 
A  dream  that  will  end  in  a  laugh,  or  a  dazzle  of 

tears . .  . 
I  would  like  to  cry  'Come  back !'  but  the  steps  are 

gone, 

My  ghost  pursues  its  ghostly  end. 
It  will  pursue  till  the  ghost  is  lost  in  the  dawn ; 
It  will  pursue  and  dream  till  the  stars  ascend. 
And  the  steps  are  woven  gorgeously  into  a  music, 
A  slow  reverberant  monotone : 
I  am  weighed  upon  like  one  in  a  horrible  fever : 
I  bear  the  weight  of  the  stars  alone. 
And  I  must  resurrect  my  dreams  again, 
Resurrect  them  all, 

Endure  them,  like  a  tyrannous  refrain, — 
Obedient  to  their  measures  rise  and  fall.  .  . 
I  have  touched  the  moonlight  whiteness  of  your  hands 
And  walked  with  you  by  a  moonlight  sea ; 
We  have  sat  and  watched  the  waves  slide  up  white 

sands, 

[45] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

The  waves  that  whispered  to  you  and  me. 

And  the  dark  hair,  the  blue-black  hair  like  midnight, 

And  the  soft  bright  golden  hair, 

And  the  hair  that  ripples  like  sun  on  moving  waters, 

And  the  hair  that  is  lighter  than  melody  on  soft  air, — 

I  have  known  and  touched  them  all,  I  have  loved  them 

all, 

I  have  played  a  ghostly  music  upon  them, 
I  have  played  a  starlight  music  upon  them,  and  held 

them,  and  let  them  fall . . 


.  .  .  Yet  there  are  none  who  love  me,  and  none  I  love ; 
And  the    mornings    pass;    and  the    noons;  and    the 

evenings  die.  .  . 
And    I    walk   under    freezing   elms,  whose   branches 

writhe 

Like  tortured  corals  against  a  clear  green  sky. 
And  those  who  call  me  I  follow ;  and  those  who  leave 

me, 
I  shall  remember  till  I  die. 


[46] 


WHITE  NOCTURNE 

i. 

The  first  soft  snowflakes  hovering  down  the  night, 

From  one  white  cloud  that  hurries  beneath  the  stars, — 

Whispering  over  the  black  unfrozen  pool, 

Silently  falling  on  withered  leaves, 

Eddying  slowly  among  bare  boughs  of  trees, — 

The  music  you  are  to  me  is  as  ghostly  as  these, 

Softly  falling,  softly  passing, 

Wandering  slowly  on  dreamless  air  ... 

The  first  soft  snowflakes  slanting  down  this  night 

Melt  on  the  lifted  palms  of  your  hands, 

Or  in  the  fragrant  darkness  of  your  hair  .  .  . 

One  of  them  finds  your  lip,  and  you  quietly  laugh, 

A  laugh  that  means  to  say 

'This  was  the  kiss  you  gave  me  yesterday, 

Or  the  ghost  of  it — ah  yes,  the  ghost  of  it  ... 

For  the  ghost  of  it  is  all  we  have  to-day  .  .  .' 

The  first  slow  snowflakes  pass 

Leaving  a  sprinkled  whiteness  on  leaves  and  grass, 

The  cloud  whirls  ghostlike  against  the  cold  bright  stars, 

[47] 


Nocturne   of  Remembered   Spring 

Over  the  long  black  boughs  that  seem  to  reach 

Forlornly  after  it, 

And  now  it  is  gone,  and  suddenly  we  seem 

To    walk    in    silence    where    before    we    walked    in 

speech  .  .  . 

But  the  silence  itself  is  exquisite, 
Like  a  pause  in  music,  ghostly  with  overtones, 
And,  silent,  we  seem  to  hear 

The  echoes  of  words  we  spoke  and  heard  last  year. 
Clearly  our  footsteps  sound  on  the  moistened  stones, 
Clearly  the  lamplit  hill-street  gleams  before  us, 
And  silently  we  climb, 
Climbing  our  tragic  destiny  together, 
From  lamp  to  lamp  up  the  bright  street  of  time. 


ii. 

You  sit  beneath  the  lamp  and  talk  to  me, 
With  dark  hair  somehow  turned  to  fire. 
Your  white  hands  lie  in  your  lap,  or  touch  your  lips, 
And  your  talk,  like  music,  weaving  intricately, 
Plays  upon  me.     It  is  a  magic  of  white 
Touching  and  changing  all  familiar  things; 

[48] 


White  Nocturne 

It  flows  in  the  windy  night, 

It  quietly  opens  secret  doors,  it  sings, 

It  returns  upon  itself,  repeats,  denies, 

Or  takes  sweet  pleasure  in  silence.    And  all  the  while 

You  sit  beneath  the  lamp,  and  smile, 

Or  turn  away  your  eyes. 

We  remember,  you  seem  to  say, — 

Choosing  strange  words  to  say  it,  in  another  way, — 

How  slowly  and  how  inevitably  we  change, 

How  what  was  then  familiar  now  grows  strange  .  .  . 

White  valleys  fall  between  us, 

Your  words  become  a  wind,  and  heavily  blow, 

We  seem  to  be  crying  across  a  chasm  of  snow, 

Trying  to  hear  the  half -remembered  words, 

Trying  to  guess  what  we  no  longer  know. 

Yes,  life  changes,  we  are  never  the  same  .  .  . 

Your  eyes  grow  dark  with  a  tiny  flame, 

You  say  the  words,  and  wait, 

And  a  sudden  terror  seizes  me,  for  I  fear 

That  you  have  divined  the  things  that  I  have  forgotten, 

Things  that  still  shine  before  you  white  and  clear. 

Yes,  it  is  strange  .  .  .     You  sigh,  your  talk  flows  on. 

You  touch  your  hair  with  your  hands,  and  sigh, 

And  suddenly  then  it  seems  to  me  that  this  word, 

[49] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

This  word  so  quietly  said,  was  a  terrible  cry  .  .  . 
And  I  am  confused,  I  desire  to  touch  your  hand, 
But  again  white  chasms  open,  the  night  flows  chill, 
And  something  freezes  within  me,  and  I  am  still. 


in. 

The  snowflakes  tick  the  frosted  windowpane, 
The  night  is  mad  with  the  senseless  dance  of  flakes, 
The  coal  fire  sinks  and  shakes; 

And  I  wait  by  the  window,  and  look  along  the  street, 
To  where  in  the  snow,  beneath  a  lamp, 
A  man  and  a  woman  stand : 

He  is  leaning  close  to  her  face,  he  takes  her  hand, 
He  pleads  with  her,  she  tries  to  turn  away  .  .  . 
What  is  it  he  leans  to  say? 
What  is  the  savage  music  he  plays  upon  her? 
What  chords  profound  with  memories? 
He  takes  her  in  his  arms,  and  she  is  his, 
She  lifts  her  face  in  the  sombre  light, 
And  together,  slowly,  they  walk  away 
Whirled  about  by  the  mad  dance  of  snow; 
Down   the   white    silent    street    from    lamp   to   lamp 
they  go, 

[50] 


White  Nocturne 

Into  the  immortal  night. 

Where  have  they  gone?  Where  will  the  white  streets 

lead  them? 

To  what  tempestuous  or  ignoble  end? 
To  what  faint  peace,  or  dazzling  pain? 
The  snowflakes  whirl  and  madden  my  brain, 
They  whirl  in  patterns  before  my  eyes  .  .  . 
And  I  see  them  at  last  in  a  small  and  sombre  room, 
In  the  yellow  lamplight  I  see  them  rise; 
She  smiles,  and  lifts  white  hands  to  touch  her  hair: 
And  he  waits  wearily  in  the  eternal  chair. 


IV. 

I   would  like  to  touch  this   snow   with  the   wind 

a  dream, 

With  a  sudden  warmth  of  music,  and  turn  it  all 
To  petals  of  roses  .  .  .    Why  is  it  that  I  recall 
Your  two  pale  hands  holding  a  bowl  of  roses, 
Wide  open  like  lotos  flowers,  floating  in  water? 
I  would  like  to  touch  this  snow  with   the  wind  of 

a  dream; 
To  hold  the  world  in  my  hands  and  let  it  fall. 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

We  have  walked  together  through  snow   for  a  long 

long  way, 

We  have  walked  among  the  hills  immortally  white, 
Golden  by  noon  and  blue  by  night. 
I  would  like  to  touch  this  snow  with  the  wind  of  a 

dream  : 
And  hear  you  singing  again  by  a  starlight  wall  .  .  . 


v. 

You  talk  to  me — what  is  it  that  you  are  saying? 

April  .  .  .    April  .  .  .    the  soft  sun  falls  between, 

The  deep  white  chasm,  the  gorge  of  the  frozen  river, 

Flashes  with  white  and  green; 

And  we  are  walking  there  by  the  blue  river, 

By  the  blue  river  scaled  with  golden  fire, 

Our  feet  move  pace  for  pace  through  the  tall  grasses, 

And  the  earth  is  light  with  desire. 

Youth  .  .  .    youth  ...    so  sing  we  for  a  space  .  .  . 

And  darkness  comes  over  your  face, 

A  great  cloud  crosses  the  golden  sky, 

Wind  shakes  the  leaves,  you  fall  in  the  grass  and  cry ; 

Crying  silently,  hiding  your  face  with  your  hands. 

Youth  .  .  .    youth  ...    so  sing  we  for  a  space, 

[52] 


White  Nocturne 

And  you  are  crying,  I  know, 

Because  this  day,  this  youth,  this  beauty,  must  go, 

Go  down  into  the  dust. 

The  golden  river  is  dark  with  a  sudden  gust, 

The  green  of  the  willows  is  ruffled  grey, 

A  great  cloud  crosses  the  sky, 

Wind  shakes  the  leaves,  you  fall  in  the  grass  and  cry. 

Youth  .  .  .    April  .  .  .    we  clamor  to  them  to  stay, 

And  a  shadow  is  on  us,  for  we  know  that  love  must  die. 

And  rising,  then,  we  see  white  peaks  in  the  distance  .  .  . 

White  peaks  .  .  .    quiet  .  .  .    peace  .   .   .     eternity  .   .   . 


VI. 

Do  you  remember,  you  who  smile  at  me, 

Under  this  lamp,  here  in  this  world  of  snow, 

Do  you  remember,  long  ago  .  .  . 

What  was  I  going  to  tell  you?    What  was  my  dream 

to  be? 

It  does  not  matter;  for  all  we  need  to  say 
To  strike  our  hearts  to  a  bitter-chorded  music 
Is  'do  you  remember  ...     on  a  certain  day  .  .  .' 
And  all  the  years  fall  down  from  us  like  leaves, 
And  all  this  sinister  world  is  blown  away. 

[53] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

Take  my  hand  and  dream  of  youth  once  more, 
Take  my  arm,  and  let  us  walk 

On  the  wet  flagstones  gleaming  yellow  with  lamps, 
And  along  the  sea- furled  shore; 
Or  up  a  certain  flight  of  marble  stairs, 
Resting  our  hands  on  the  green-veined  balustrade, 
And  into  a  room  where  a  low-toned  waltz  is  played, 
And  women  rise  from  gilded  chairs. 
Ah,  this  has  been  a  golden  day, 
You  lean  and  say, 

A  day  like  music  of  strange  rich  involutions, 
Swift  and  profound  and  huddled  and  sweet  .  .  . 
The  wind  of  it  blows  even  into  this  room, 
There  is  a  hint  of  forests  in  this  rich  gloom  .  .  . 
You  smile,  your  eyes  intensely  darken  at  mine, 
I  feel  the  music  about  us  heavily  beat, 
Waver  and  vanish  and  shine. 
One  white  rose  with  a  golden  heart — 
Held  in  the  cup  of  your  hand — 
To-day,  I  muse,  all  things  will  find  solution, 
The  universe  is  simple  to  understand. 
Take  my  arm,  and  let  us  drift 

Like  leaves  when  the  wind  is  driven ;  for  the  day  soon 
ends. 

[54] 


White  Nocturne 

It  is  strange  how  such  a  day,  with  such  a  music, 
And  one  white   rose,  will  make   friends   more   than 
friends  . 


VII. 

White    hours    like    snow,    white    hours    like    eternal 

snow  .  .  . 

Long  white  streets  jewelled  with  lights  .  .  . 
Our  steps  are  muffled  and  silent,  we  scarcely  know 
How  swiftly  we  cross  the  nights. 
I  would  like  to  touch  this  snow  with  the  fire  of  a 

dream, 

With  the  mouth  of  a  dream.    And  turn  it  all 
To  petals  of  roses  ...    I  would  like  to  touch  you,  too, 
And  change  you  into  the  chord  of  music  I  knew. 
Can  you  not  change?  .  .  .     Run  back  again  to  April? 
Laugh  out  at  me  from  among  young  lilac  leaves  ?  .  .  . 
Play  with  your  jewels,  and  sing! 
Feeling  the  earth  beneath  you  float  with  spring!  .  .  . 
You  talk  in  an  even  tone,  I  answer  you; 
And  all  about  us  seems  to  say 

Peace  .  .  .    peace  .  .  .    the  hills  and  streets  are  cold. 
You  are  growing  old. 

[ssi 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

VIII. 

Yes,  we  have  changed,  slowly  and  silently  changed; 

We  are  the  hungry  ghosts  of  the  selves  we  knew; 

We  sit  on  each  other's  tombs  and  stare  at  death, 

We  are  not  lovely,  we  scarcely  believe  it  true, — 

And  only  then  with  a  pang  that  is  almost  a  cry, — 

That  once,  long  ago,  we  were  the  I  and  the  you 

Who  shivered  in  music  under  an  April  sky. 

White  night  of  snow,  and  a  thousand  nights  like  this ; 

Snow  on  our  lips  like  the  ghost  of  a  kiss; 

And  a  thousand  nights  in  a  hollow  second  of  time 

We  will  return  again, 

Silently,  or  with  trivial  speech,  to  climb 

From  lamp  to  lamp  up  the  white  street  of  pain. 

Yet,  is  it  better,  you  say 

Painfully  turning  your  darkened  eyes  away, 

To  lend  our  souls  to  a  quieter  music  at  last, — 

Remembering,  when  we  will, 

The  sudden  and  gorgeous  clashings  of  the  past?  .  .  . 

Snow  falls  about  us,  the  hills  immortally  white 

Wait  far  off  in  the  undisturbing  night. 


[56] 


NOCTURNE  IN  A  MINOR  KEY 

i. 

I  will  say:  I  walked  alone  in  whistling  darkness. 
Or  heard  a  rush  of  rain  through  windless  air. 
Or  stood  in  dust  with  yellow  leaves  around  me. 
Or  dreamed  I  saw  a  sea-maid  comb  her  hair. 
But  why  recite  these  things?     You  will  not  hear  me, 
Or  if  you  heard  me,  would  not  care. 


I  will  say:  I  saw  a  sea-gull  crossing  water, 

Or  suddenly  in  the  midnight  heard  a  cry. 

Or  woke  from  sleep  to  hear  the  green  leaves  rustle. 

Or  saw  bright  windows  in  a  misty  sky. 

I  will  say,  I  walked  alone,  and  heard  none  call  me ; 

You  will  not  care,  nor  ask  me  why  .  .  . 

These  are  the  notes  whereof  my  life  makes  music. 

These  are  the  hurrying  notes  of  pain 

That  whirl  like  windy  papers  under  streetlamps, 

[59] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

Blown  through  the   spacious  darkness  of  my  brain.. 
I  will  say :  these  thing  are  trifles,  yet  they  kill  me. 
Shall  we  rehearse  our  play  again? 


Be  patient,   press  your  palm  against  my  heartbeats,. 

Reverse  my  heart  like  an  hour-glass, 

And  watch  the  downward  sifting  of  my  minutes 

Until  the  time  when  I  must  pass  .  .  . 

You  shall  have  heard,  at  least,  a  poignant  music 

And  seen  futility ; 

You  will  know  better  than  to  weep  for  me. 


II. 

I  am  the  one — since  I  must  now  confess  it — 
Who  came  too  late,  and  found  all  windows  dark. 
I  am  the  one  who  sat  on  dew-wet  benches 
And  watched  the  fountain  in  the  deserted  park. 
I  am  the  one  who  walked  in  a  grass-grown  street 
Hearing  no  sound  save  my  own  feet. 
I  saw  the  darkness  rising  like  a  wall. 
I  heard  old  stars  chime  out  and  crack  and  fall. 
I  turned  to  the  east  and  saw  it  red  and  grey, 

[60] 


Nocturne  in  a  Minor  Key 

"Saw  lovely  faces  blown  like  leaves  away. 

I  heard  slow  waves  of  music  lapse  to  silence, 

And  wished  to  speak,  yet  had  no  word  to  say. 


I  am  the  one  whom  ancient  spring  returning 

With  sound  of  leaves  could  not  assuage. 

I  am  the  one  who  found  your  pity  heartless, 

Yet  could  not  rail  at  you,  nor  rage. 

You  loved  me  once,  you  love  me  now  no  longer  .  .  . 

Must  I  take  kindness  for  my  daily  wage? 


in. 

I  will  say:  I  walk  involved  in  webs  of  darkness, 
Across  my  face  feel  filaments  of  shadows, 
Yet  hear  you  laugh,  and  seek  for  you. 
You  have  withdrawn  your  golden-chorded  beauty. 
Shall  I  not  somewhere  find  the  love  I  knew? 


I  will  say :  I  walk  at  night  in  crowded  places 
And  search  for  a  perfumed  secret  in  white  faces, 
And  dream  by  night  of  faces  seen  by  day. 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

Or  climb  dark  stairs  and  in  a  dark  room's  fragrance 

Play  such  a  music  as  pleas  of  rain  might  play. 

The  silver  talons  tear  my  heart  to  beauty, 

The  silver  talons  flash  and  tear  .  .  . 

Petals  fall  to  the  grass,  and  in  that  darkness 

I  see  you  passing  there, 

Smiling  at  me  as  if  for  one  behind  me, 

Smiling  at  death,  perhaps,  who  waits  behind  me, 

Lifting  a  conscious  hand  to  loose  your  hair. 


Will  you  not  stay,  or,  if  you  go,  return? 

My  heart  grows  tired,  the  music  ends. 

I  will  walk  alone,  implore  my  veins  to  silence, 

Or  talk  of  casual  things  with  casual  friends. 

Or  sit  on  a  dew-wet  bench  in  the  park,  recalling 

Laughter,    and    speech,    and    silence,    and    think    my 

musings 

Are   like   that  quiet   fountain,   quietly   falling: 
Flung  from  a  starless  darkness,  flung  in  vain 
To  fall  in  a  mournful  whiteness  back  again. 


162] 


Nocturne  in  a  Minor  Key 

IV. 

The  green-leaved  bough  leans  down  above  my  head, 

The  pale  green  leaves,  with  the  lamplight  on  them  shed, 

Twinkle  on  delicate  stems,  whisper  a  little, 

Tremble  on  breathless  air. 

The  green-leaved  bough  leans  down  towards  its  image 

Of  twinkling  leaves  in  the  water  there  .  .  . 

And  I  am  a  prey  to  trifles  of  no  moment, 

Caught  in  a  snare  of  circumstance, 

I  laugh  for  a  foolish  laughter,  weep  for  sorrow, 

For  every  whim  of  the  music  bow  and  dance: 

Twinkle  with  leaves,  and  flow  and  fall  w.th  water, 

Lean  with  the  leaning  bough  in  arrested  pain; 

Die  and  am  born  again. 

These  are  the  thousand  things  by  which  I  seek  you, 

The  atoms  of  dust  that  fall  and  break  my  brain. 


V. 

Say  then:  I  see  too  much,  and  you  too  little. 
You  lean  and  laugh  above  the  applauding  music, 
While  I,  apart,  hear  silence  between  the  tones. 
For  you,  there  is  no  falling,  save  of  petals; 
For  me,  apart,  the  silences  fall  like  stones. 

[63] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

How  could  we  dance,  then,  to  the  self -same  music, 
Who  see  so  much,  so  little?     I  do  you  wrong 
If  I  reproach  you,  call  you  too  contented, 
Too  quick  to  thrill  to  a  sentimental  song. 
Walk,  then,  among  your  tulips,  turn  your  eyes, 
Caress  with  a  careful  hand  your  jewelled  hair, 
Discern  the  flashing  of  wings  in  empty  skies, 
Pause  for  effect  upon  your  marble  stair  .  .  . 
And  I  will  not  reproach  you,  blaming  only 
The  sinister  glittering  chaos  of  our  time, 
Through  which,  forever,  lonely  walks  with  lonely, — 
The  lover,  ridiculous ;  the  loved,  sublime. 


[64] 


EPISODE  IN  GREY 

I 

So,  to  begin  with,  dust  blows  down  the  street, 

In  lazy  clouds  and  swirls,  and  after  that 

Tatters  of  paper  and  straws,  and  waves  of  heat, 

And  leaves  plague-bitten;  under  a  tree  a  cat 

Sprawls  in  the  sapless  grass,  and  shuts  his  eye. 

And  sitting  behind  closed  shutters  you  hear  a  beat 

Of  melancholy  steps  go  slowly  by, 

See  crooked  rays  of  shadows  reeling, 

Fantastic  fever  shapes,  across  your  ceiling; 

And  in  the  enormous  silence  that  ensues 

You  think  how  dusty  and  limp  the  green  leaves  hang, 

Or  hear  a  bell  shake  out  its  hourly  news 

In  clang  on  languid  clang. 

And  time  and  sky,  those  items  of  our  lives, 

Seem  but  as  windlestraws 

In  the  gigantic  vortex  of  our  hearts : 

We  move,   we   change,   we  hesitate,   we   pause, 

In  tune  with  vast  self -generating  laws ; 

The  hour  predestined  comes;  predestined  it  departs. 

[65] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

ii. 

And  after  days  of  dust  have  swirled  and  gone, 
And  sparrows  arch  their  wings  in  the  meagre  shade, 
When  the  late  tulips  have  wilted  on  their  stems, 
And  even  by  the  pool's  rim  the  grasses  fade, 
Then,  after  all,  but  now  perhaps  too  late, 
The  long-expected  clouds  mount  up  again  .  .  . 
Yes,  we  have  had  too  long  to  wait : 
There  is  no  assuagement  in  the  sound  of  rain. 
We  hear  its  pleasure  among  the  leaves, 
We  hear  its  liquid  parting  from  the  eaves, 
We  look,  and  in  each  other's  eyes 
See  lost  illusions  and  answerless  questions  rise. 
You  light  the  lamp,  and  with  your  nerveless  hands 
Thrust  your  gleaming  needle  and  draw  your  strands 
Of  lilac  through  pale  silk  .  .  .     You  lower  your  head, 
And  you  are  silent,  and  for  all  I  know 
You  wish  this  time  had  never  come,  that  somehow  it 

might  go, 

Or  even — as  I  wish  too — that  we  were  dead. 
We  are  agreed.     And  though  we  say  no  word, 
We  read  each  other's  veins,  profoundly  know 
The  tedium  of  a  tune  too  often  heard, 
To  much  rehearsed  .  .  .     We  heard  it  come  and  go, 

[66] 


Episode  in  Grey 

We  played  our  parts  with  such  pathetic  care, 

I  the  accompaniment  and  you  the  air, 

Reversed  our  roles,  with  chord  and  discord  chiming, 

Suspension  slowly  to  resolution  climbing, — 

Yet  somehow,  through  no  fault  of  you  or  me, 

Drew  out  the  affair  too  long,  only  to  learn 

Our  sweet  musicianship  could  only  earn 

A  tardy  kindness,  sad  futility. 

Did  you  delay  too  long  your  acquiescence, 

Surrendering  only  when  desire  was  dead? 

Did  I  persuade  too  long,  command  too  seldom? 

No  answer  shall  be  said, 

There  is  no  need  for  answer,  for  we  know 

When  we  first  drew  together,  with  slow  steps, 

Assaying  and  presaging  with  sure  eyes, 

It  was  predestined  so. 


in. 

And  now,  you  say,  we  cannot  move  apart  .  .  . 
The  minutes,  the  hours,  the  days  we  wove  together 
In  a  mesh  of  pain  have  bound  us,  heart  to  heart: 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

We  strain  in  a  tender  hatred,  wondering  whether 
The  hurt  we  do  will  hurt  the  other  more, 
Or  more  ourselves  .  .  .    We  move  in  a  close-linked  pain, 
And  stretch,  and  feel  soft  anguish  at  the  core, 
And  praise  each  other  the  while  our  eyes  complain. 
We  should  have  seen  the  coming  of  this  day. 
We  should  have  known  that  two  such  lives  as  ours, 
Such   lives   of   ruined   cities,   crumbled   houses, 
Perspectives  of  black   ruins   fouled  with  flowers, 
Could  not  be  brought  together  without  probings  .  .  . 
We  should  have  known  the  day  must  come  at  last 
When  we  should  see  the  alluring  present  crumble 
Among  the  horrible  slag-heaps  of  the  past. 
Too  old  we  were  at  heart,  and  too  accomplished 
In  pause  and  counter-pause,  and  feigned  confusion ; 
Too  skilfully  we  played,  too  well  responded, 
Too  calmly  saw  and  weighed  the  veiled  allusion: 
And  yet,  for  all  our  wisdom,  could  not  see 
Where  all  was  certainty  no  love  could  be. 
We  have  deceived  ourselves,  but  not  each  other: 
Pretending  love  for  what  we  could  not  love, 
Now   in  a  love  of   ghosts  we  are  bound  together 
And  struggle  and  cry  and  rage,  and  cannot  move. 

[68] 


Episode  in  Grey 

VI. 

Shall   we  be  honest  then,   and  tear  apart?   .   .   . 

Your  hands  lie  limp,  you  hear  rebukes  and  pleadings, 

And  a  soft  fiery  tearing  in  your  heart 

Presages   sleepless   nights,    imagined   bleedings    .    .    . 

No,  we  have  grown  together:  every  motion, 

In  laugh,  and  look,  and  question  and  reply, 

Since  first  we  met  and  joined  in  this  deception. 

More  subtly  fused  our  brains,  till  'you'  and  T 

Are  mere  abstractions,  interchangeable, 

And  death  to  one  is  death  to  both. 

We  hate  each  other  tenderly  and  well, 

We  think  of  partings  and  are  nothing  loth, 

Our  kissings  are  a  f anged  and  poisonous  thing ; 

And  we  should  strike  more  bitterly,  did  we  know 

The  pain  would  not  return;  and  so  we  cling 

In  desperate  heartlessness,  and  cannot  go  ... 

Two  perfect  lovers  snared  in  a  single  snare ! — 

Snared  in  a  love  of  making  love  too  well. 

Our  music  sweeps  us  on,  we  know  not  where, 

We  are  sliced  with  violin,  and  stabbed  with  bell, 

And  cannot  end  what  we  ourselves  have  started; 

Mad  with  desire  we  seize  and  crush  and  tear, 

Only  to  find  it  is  ourselves  we  torture, 

[69] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

Playing  a  dissonance  which  we  cannot  bear. 
You  are  not  she  I  passionately  made  love  to, 
Nor  am  I  he  you  cunningly  adored. 
The  overtones  we  thought  we  heard  were  echoes, 
The  lily  we  thrust  our  hands  to  is  a  sword. 


V. 

After  long  days  of  dust  we  lie  and  listen 

To  the  silverly  woven  harmonies  of  rain, 

Your  eyes  look  past  me,  dark  with  pain, 

You  think  how  the  thin  leaves  thrill  and  drip  and 

glisten, 
And  touch  my  hair  with  your  hand  .  .  .    We  should 

be  wise, — 

The  tremor  of  your  body  seems  to  say, — 
If  like  these  leaves  we  forgot  the  dusty  day; 
And  closed  our  eyes, 

And  took  what  passion  gives,  without  complaining 
That  love  is  not  our  lot. 

Steadily  falls  the  rain,  all  night  it  will  be  raining, 
And  we  shall  sleep,  and  know  it  not. 

[70] 


Episode  in  Grey 

This  hand  that  touches  me  is  not  the  hand 
Of  the  silver  queen  I  dreamed  of,  nor  these  lips 
The  red  lips  of  the  cool  white-hearted  nereid  .  . 
Passion  comes  over  us  with  its  dark  eclipse. 


VI. 

And  so,  to  end  with — who  shall  say  the  end? 
Who  first  will  break  this  compact — you  or  I? 
This  much  we  know — it  must  be  done  abruptly, 
No  soft  preludic  speech,  no  sudden  cry, 
No  murderously  indifferent  glance  of  eye  .  .  . 
But  some  day  one  of  us,  grown  half  possessed 
With  pain  unbearable,  will  walk  away 
Into  the  emptiness  of  time  he  came  from, 
Saying  no  word,  since  there's  no  word  to  say. 


[71] 


1915 


INNOCENCE 

The  little  leaves  that  climbed  so  high 
Are  blown  down  headlong  from  the  sky, 
They  are  pelted  and  torn  by  dreamless  rain, 
They  that  had  dreams  but  got  no  gain. 
Out  of  the  west  a  wind  comes  calling, 
And  they  whirl  earthward,  giddily  falling 
Into  the  dull  dust  whence  they  rose, 
To  bear  this  rain  and  wait  for  snows  . 


They  follow  with  wind  and  dance  a  little, 
The  red  turns  brown,  the  green  goes  brittle, 
They  eddy  with  dust,  the  wind  comes  chill, 
And  then,  at  the  last,  they  all  lie  still, — 
Even  the  leaf  that  climbed  so  high 
That  it  reached  among  stars,  was  part  of  sky. 
— Lie  quiet,  earth,  and  slumber  deep. 
Once  more  we  come  with  you  to  sleep. 

[75] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

i. 

By  candle-light  he  read  till  late. 
A  wild  wind  creaked  the  garden  gate. 
And  when  at  last  he  closed  his  book 
And  ran  the  curtain  up,  to  look 
At  the  sinister  sky,  against  the  pane 
Came  sharp  the  first  few  drops  of  rain, 
And  a  lightning  flame  cleft  hard  the  night 
Lighting  the  trees  with  swift  blue  light. 
Was  youth  not  lightning-flame  like  this?  .  .  . 
And  would  not  striking  so  be  bliss?  .  .  . 
The  rain-drops  paused,  then  faster  fell, 
The  murmur  of  raindrops  seemed  to  swell, 
Filling  the  dark  with  unseen  grief, 
Falling  on  roof  and  bough  and  leaf; 
While  lightning-stabs  ran  ceaselessly 
Out  of  the  darkness  into  the  sea. 
He  heard  the  night-wind  gustily  roar 
Among  the  trees.    Along  the  shore, 
Sullen  and  slow,  in  lull  of  squall, 
He  heard  the  short  waves  rush  and  fall, 
And  nearer  at  hand  the  patter  on  leaves 
And  the  heartless  drip  of  drops  from  eaves. 
These  minute-drops,  it  seemed  they  meant 

[76] 


Innocence 

That  youth  went  as  the  minutes  went, 
Falling  forever,  as  all  things  must, 
Into  the  grey  and  dreamless  dust. 
Why  was  he  not  at  sea  out  there, 
Fighting  the  wildness  in  this  air? 
Would  he  be  always  chained  to  soil, 
Condemned,  year  after  year,  to  toil 
With  hoe  and  harrow,  seed  and  plough  ? 
This  hand  that  held  this  candle  now, 
Must  wither,  and  pass,  among  these  meadows 
He  turned  the  flame.     A  riot  of  shadows 
Flew  round  the  walls.    And  he  knew  then 
That  he  must  go,  live,  laugh,  with  men, — 
With  men  who  rode  through  nights  like  this 
For  a  paltry  flag  or  a  woman's  kiss. 


He  puffed  the  flame  out,  threw  it  by, 

And  listened  quiet;  while  the  sky 

Blazed  white  with  lightning  one  brief  space 

And  trees  and  sea  leapt  towards  his  face. 

Blackness  came  back.    The  room  was  still. 

He  opened  the  window.     Over  the  sill, 

Into  the  tumult  of  the  storm, 

[77] 


Nocturne   of  Remembered   Spring 

He  stepped  and  felt  the  rain-drops,  warm., 
On   face  and  shoulders  teeming  thick 
While  lightnings  glimmered,  quiet  and  quick. 
At  the  garden  gate  he  paused,  looked  back, 
Saw  all  the  cottage  windows  black, 
Then,  facing  slants  of  gusty  rain, 
And  breathing  salt  air  keen  as  pain, 
Went  forth,  a  man,  to  meet  his  earth 
With  a  young  and  hard  and  savage  mirth. 


Along  the  beach,  a  mile  to  town, 

He  ran  with  dripping  face  bent  down, 

The  drops  came  thick,  he  scarce  could  breathe, 

He  heard  them  whisper  and  hiss  and  seethe 

On  the  flattened  blackness  of  this  sea 

That  washed  up  towards  him  mournfully. 

To-night,  for  the  first  time,  life  was  sweet! 

These  waves  that  whitely  round  his  feet 

Spread  sly  and  sibilant,  like  pale  hands 

Reaching  in  darkness  over  the  sands, 

These  were  his  old  days  yearning  still 

To  lure  him  down  to  dark  and  kill ; 

And  speeding  through  them,  tireless,  strong, 

[78] 


Innocence 

His  young  heart  burst  with  a  triumph-song, 
He  fled  like  fire,  he  was  free  at  last, 
He  rose  like  a  swift  wind  from  his  past. 


O  youth  of  laughter,  youth  of  fire, 
Youth  tremulous  with  bright  desire, 
Welcoming  sun,  laughing  at  rain, 
Making  a  brightness  out  of  pain, 
Weaving  of  dreams  a  lovely  earth 
With  heart  of  sunlight,  soul  of  mirth : 
Speed  to  the  sun,  to  that  great  blaze, 
To  light  therein  your  glorious  days. 


By  the  old  stone  bridge  he  met  a  van, 
And  there  at  last  his  life  began. 
A  smoky  lantern  gleamed  behind, 
He  shouted,  ran  toward  it  blind, 
And  a  dark-eyed  girl  leaned  out  to  him 
Her  lovely  young  face  shadowed  dim. 
She  bade  him  in  to  shelter  there, 
And  talking  with  him  combed  her  hair, 
While  rain  whirred  on  the  canvas  roof, 

[79] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

And  they  heard  the  tramp  and  splash  of  hoof. 

As  far  as  the  second  town,  she  said, 

The  van  would  go ;  she  shook  her  head, 

Making  the  black  hair  flow  and  fall, 

And  tossed  it  back,  while  sweet  and  small 

Her  mischievous  face  looked  out  through  it, 

Like  a  hidden  fire,  most  exquisite ; 

And  seeing  her  eyes  burn  through  that  dark, 

Each  like  a  golden  blowing  spark, 

His  hands  grew  hot,  his  young  heart  beat, 

He  thought  this  woman  was  strangely  sweet, 

A  dangerous  red  flame  fierce  in  smoke, 

And  his  young  voice  trembled  when  he  spoke. 

Meanwhile  his  eyes,  with  hungry  stare, 

Fed  at  the  miracle  of  her  hair; 

And  her  white  hand  that  moved  so  slow, 

Combing  the  long  hair  to  and  fro, 

Drew  to  a  rhythmical  delight 

His  young  blood  innocent  till  that  night. 

Behind  her  head  a  lantern  hung, 

A  small  red  flame,  where  from  were  flung 

Goblin  shadows  to  spin  and  sprawl 

On  canvas  roof  and  canvas  wall ; 

And  while  she  combed  these  shadows  went 

[go] 


Innocence 

Dizzily,  silently,  blurred  and  blent, 
Came  out,  shrank  back,  and  swiftly  fled, 
At  lift  of  her  arm  or  toss  of  head. 
She  laughed,  to  watch  his  bashful  stare: 
Had  he  seen  no  woman  comb  her  hair? — 
She  drew  it  out  and  coiled  it  then 
To  heap  up  on  her  head  again; 
Between  her  lips  she  held  each  pin 
Till  place  was  found  to  push  it  in, 
Yet,  holding  them,  could,  every  while, 
Manage,  in  spite  of  them,  to  smile. 
And  when  she  smiled  her  sweetness  came 
Through  all  his  flesh  like  gusty  flame, 
Rich  dissolution,  sharp  and  sweet, 
Making  his  full  heart  pause,  to  beat, 
Before  it  hurried  to  keep  in  time 
With  measured  rain,  a  delicate  chime. 
Backward,  it  seemed,  on  all  his  days 
She  shed  from  her  heart  a  windy  blaze, 
And  all  that  once  had  pained  him  so, 
Somehow,  in  that  bewitching  glow, 
Grew  beautiful  and  far  and  strange; 
He  felt  his  buried  childhood  change 
And  blossom  in  him  and  grow  fair 

[81] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

As  if  it  fed  on  magic  air; 

And  all  his  grey  fields  seemed  once  more 

Gardens  by  an  enchanted  shore, 

Where  dew-wet  daisies  gleamed  in  sun 

And  earth  seemed  always  just  begun, — 

Just  risen,  with  a  laughing  face, 

From  the  great  fount  of  stars  in  space  .  .  . 

Life  was  a  many-musicked  dream, 

A  mystic  woof  of  dust  and  gleam, 

And  on  these  musics  came  and  went 

Visions  out  of  the  darkness  sent, 

Faces  and  voices  merged  in  one. 

Cool  green  earth  and  blazing  sun  .  .  . 

Were  he  and  she,  and  all  their  world 

Only  a  golden  dust-mote,  whirled 

In  a  shaft  of  fire  that  fell  between 

Two  darknesses,  a  moment  seen?  .  .  . 

Time  caught  him  up  and  fled  with  him, 

His  childhood  whirled  away,  grew  dim  .  .  . 

And  she,  being  gypsy,  took  his  palm 

To  peer  therein  for  good  or  harm, 

In  changing  light,  with  changing  eyes, 

And  virgin  brow  grown  sagely  wise. 

Love  of  glory  was  here  foretold — 


Innocence 

Glory  his  hands  would  never  hold; 

His  life  was  little  and  bright  and  brief, 

Soon  to  be  withered,  like  a  leaf  .  .  . 

He  laughed,  but  let  his  hand  lie  there; 

Feeling  against  his  cheek  her  hair, 

So  soft;  and  when  she  stirred  her  head 

It  touched,  withdrew,  and  touched,  and  spread 

A  luxury,  like  blossoming, 

Smouldering  rose  and  flashing  wing, 

Through  all  his  heart:  and  down  his  veins, 

Over  the  seething  of  these  rains, 

Golden  horns  in  his  blood  were  blown, 

Prolonged  and  sweet  in  golden  tone, 

Faint  and  clear,  a  far-off  laughter, 

Sinister,  deep,  and  sad ;  and  after 

A  silence  came  in  which  rain  fell, 

In  which  he  heard  her  slowly  tell 

Of  youth,  more  fleeting  bright  than  breath, 

Love  unfulfilled,  and  life,  and  death. 

What  meant  she?    These  were  word  and  word 

Not  life,  not  dream.     Her  voice  he  heard, 

And  that  was  like  a  music,  flowing 

Smooth  as  fire,  sweetly  slowing, 

Subtle,  persuasive,  a  command 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

Upon  his  heart;  and  still  his  hand 

Lay  in  her  hand,  and  still  she  sought 

His  web  therein  with  puzzled  thought. 

He  smiled.     And  did  she,  then,  believe 

A  destiny  these  lines  could  weave 

To  hide  such  portent  of  disaster? 

No,  of  his  own  life  he  was  master; — 

Although  she  called  him  evil-starred. 

After  a  lightning-flash  came  hard 

The  rush  of  rain  along  the  roof, 

Drowning  the  tramp  and  splash  of  hoof. 

Smiling,  serene,  she  dropped  his  palm, 

And  touched  her  hair  again;  and  calm, 

With  half -averted  musing  face, 

One  elbow  raised  in  conscious  grace, 

And  vague,  deep-seeing,  darkened  eyes 

Like  starless  space  in  starred  blue  skies, 

Fed  at  his  soul,  until  it  seemed 

That  in  those  depths  he  shrank  and  dreamed, 

Was  of  her  life  some  tiny  part 

Which  had  flowed  upward  from  her  heart  .  .  . 

And  pondering  on  her  living  face, 

Her  eyes  half  closed,  he  thought  a  space 

That  life  ere  this  he  never  knew; 

[84] 


Innocence 

Only  this  time,  this  place,  were  truer 

Only  this  moment  was  abiding; 

All  else  illusion  swiftly  gliding. 

Or  were  these  eyes  a  dream?  .  .  .    But  no: 

Naught  could  be  life,  more  truly  so ; 

And  mirrored  in  him,  as  in  a  glass, 

This  lovely  face  would  never  pass. 

The  van  was  jolting  into  town, 
And  into  the  darkness  he  jumped  down.. 
A  smoky  lantern  gleamed  behind, 
The  rain  came  thick,  it  beat  him  blind, 
And  a  dark-eyed  girl  leaned  out  to  him, 
Her  lovely  young  face  shadowed  dim. 
'Good-night !'     Her  words  were  lost  in  rain, 
He  peered,  but  could  not  see  her  plain. 
Only,  a  hand  through  lamplight  came 
Which  touching  his  hand  thrilled  like  flame ;; 
And  dark-starred  eyes  and  shadowy  cheek 
So  smote  him  he  could  hardly  speak. 
'Good-night!' — Her  words  were  lost  in  rain. 
And  in  his  heart  great  bells  of  pain 
Opened  and  beat  and  fell  and  beat 
While  dark  he  ran  with  eyeless  feet. 

[85] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

n. 

Rain  on  the  roof  above  him  drummed; 
Soft  rain  through  all  his  pulses  hummed ; 
Water  returning  to  the  sea 
Out  of  the  night's  immensity. 
How  often  had  this  rain  been  heard, 
And  he  had  understood  no  word! 
But  now  like  music's  own  self,  weaving 
Delicate   measures   past   conceiving, 
With  sibilant  whisper,  windy  whir, 
It  talked  of  her,  it  sang  of  her, 
Mimicked  her  laughter,  feigned  her  speech, 
Till  through  the  night  he  yearned  to  reach 
And  find  if  in  impalpable  air 
His  fingers  might  not  touch  her  hair. 
This  girl  was  sweet.     He  had  not  known 
A  soul  could  be  so  rose-like  blown  .  .  . 
Outside  his  window,  by  the  eaves, 
Murmurous,  glib,  he  heard  the  leaves 
Drinking  the  raindrops  gleefully 
In  green  and  secret  revelry. 
Strange!    through  all  his  life  till  now, 
Watching  the  soil  and  the  slow  plough 
That  tore  the  matted  roots  apart, 

[86] 


Innocence 

He  had  not  dreamed  that  earth's  deep  heart 

In  slowly  sunward  yearning  bliss 

Could  send  up  such  a  rose  as  this ! — 

The  soil  was  sweet  that  did  such  things; 

This  clod  had  sent  up  sunlit  wings  .  .  . 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  in  that  place 

Summoned  the  cool  light  of  her  face, 

And  her  cool  hand  beneath  his  own, 

And  her  low  voice's  silver  tone. 

Sweeter  than  music  was  this  voice: 

Sweet  as  when  violins  rejoice 

In  complex  mood,  to  single  time, 

And  delicate  concords  fall  and  climb: 

There  was  a  plangent  tremble  here 

Which  troubled  sweet  the  spirit's  ear  .  .  . 

Yet  was  it  true,  what  she  had  said,— 

And  were  the  stars  so  easily  read, 

And  could  his  life  be  swayed  afar 

By  malign  lustre  of  some  star? — 

No,  this  was  dreaming ;  young  and  strong, 

He  would  fashion  all  his  days  to  song, 

And  walk  in  sunlight  with  sure  feet. 

The  rain  hurried  .  .  .    The  warm  rain  beat  .  . 

Through  his  veins  in  gusts  it  went. 

[87] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

And  listening  dark  he  thought  it  meant 
Music  bearing  among  earth's  roots 
Dreams  of  blossoms  and  of  fruits, 
Petals  conceived  in  darkling  sod 
By  which  the  soil  might  look  on  God. 


Between  his  eyelids  vague  shapes  gleamed, 
A  light  sleep  fell,  he  turned  and  dreamed. 
...  In  sinister  dusk  by  sea  they  walked, 
On  weeded  shingle  sat  and  talked: 
A  light  wind  whirled  her  soft  white  dress, 
It  tossed  her  hair,  her  loveliness 
Blew  over  him  like  gusts  of  fire, 
Dizzying  him  with  mute  desire  .  .  . 
The  surf  lunged,  hissing,  at  their  feet  .  .  . 
And  laughing  upward  to  him,  sweet, 
In  mock  of  fear  she  drew  away 
From  a  sliding  foam-sheet  gleaming  grey. 
The  sun  broke  free  from  clouds  a  space, 
Warming  the  youngness  of  her  face; 
Across  grey  leagues  of  hurrying  sea 
He  shot  pale  fire;  then,  ominously, 

[88] 


Innocence 

Dipped  whirling  into  the  rack  again, 
And  night  fell  swiftly,  scattering  rain. 
She  laughed,  put  out  her  hand  to  rise, 
Letting  her  dark  eyes  seek  his  eyes, 
And  for  a  moment,  so,  stood  still ; 
And  suddenly,  then,  youth  had  his  will, 
He  kissed  her  mouth,  she  leaned  to  him, 
Rain  and  the  sea  grew  far  and  dim, 
He  only  knew  he  touched  her  face, 
They  two  alone  in  time  and  space. 
He  kissed  her  small,  sweet,  shutting  eyes, 
And  felt  her  young  breast  quiver  and  rise, 
Soft  on  his  cheek  her  soft  hair  blew, 
Sea-gulls  above  them  cried  and  flew, 
And  over  the  cliffs  came  faintly  down 
Three  bell-notes  from  the  wind-blown  town 
Chaos  of  tone  .  .  .     The  bell-notes  came 
Flaring  within  his  heart  like  flame, 
Clashed  and  mingled  and  pulsed  and  roared, 
Molten  upon  him  fused  and  poured, 
Opened  and  beat  and  fell  and  beat 
While  dark  he  ran  with  eyeless  feet  .  .  . 


[89] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

He  woke.     Faint  tremble  of  a  bell 

Sang  in  his  eyes.     The  rain  still  fell. 

And  rising  in  the  darkness  there 

It  seemed  he  felt  her  windy  hair 

Cool  on  his  eyes,  and  still  it  seemed 

He  kissed  this  mouth,  more  real  than  dreamed  . 

Fantastic  fires  within  him  blent, 

And  into  the  rain,  half-dazed,  he  went: 

Dropped  down  the  path  that  led  to  sea, 

And  through  the  darkness,  passionately, 

Sought  for  the  whiteness  of  her  dress, 

Her  glimmering  phantom  loveliness. 

This  was  the  place — or  was  it  this? 

He  heard  on  the  sea  the  slow  rain  hiss. 

She  was  not  here  ...    A  dream,  no  more  .  .  . 

He  watched  the  pale  surf  charge  the  shore, 

Watched  the  wild  combers  plunge  and  sprawl 

And  helpless  shingle  rolling  crawl 

Giddily  down  the  undertow  .  .  . 

Into  this  great  sea  he  would  go, 

And  fight  these  savage  waves  a  space, — 

A  song  of  praise  for  her  young  face. 


[90] 


Innocence 

He  watched  his  chance,  and  stooped,  and  dove. 

Darkness  above  him  whelmed  and  drove. 

He  fought,  three  hugh  waves  crushed  him  down; 

He  felt  that  he  must  breathe  or  drown; 

Her  face  went  past  him,  days  and  nights; 

He  caught  at  a  whirl  of  blinding  lights ; 

Black  depths  beneath  him  burst  in  moons, 

Bells  in  the  water  beat  in  swoons, 

He  swallowed  fire,  he  strangled  flame, 

Then  darkness  and  a  swift  dream  came. 


.   .   .   He   walked  with   loud  steps   on   hard   sand. 

Bright  seas  foamed  up  on  either  hand, 

Hissing  a  threat  of  death  to  him  .  .  . 

Before  him,  far,  and  fading  dim, 

A  green-treed  world  lay  low  and  sweet 

Towards  which  he  moved  his  tired  feet. 

Among  the  tall  trees  lights  came  out, 

Someone  was  running,  he  heard  a  shout, 

And  a  face  that  he  had  loved  somewhere 

Leaned  out  beneath  a  lantern  there. 

She  smiled,  he  reached  his  hands  to  her, 

Darkness  came  down,  he  heard  wings  whir, 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

A  sudden  music,  intense  and  sweet, 

Broke  in  the  air,  and  vanished  fleet  .  .  . 

He  hurried,  he  felt  a  creeping  dread, 

Hurried,  and  dared  not  turn  his  head  .  .  . 

He  walked  with  loud  steps  on  hard  sand, 

Bright  seas  foamed  up  on  either  hand; 

He  felt  their  cold  and  sparkling  breath 

Exhale  upon  him  a  wind  of  death, 

The  low  green  shore  grew  vague  and  far, 

One  light  remained, — or  was  it  star? — 

And  now  the  darkness  drank  this  down, 

He  saw  no  more  of  shore  or  town, 

Only  this  tongue  of  hard  wet  sand 

And  black  waves  foaming  on  either  hand  .  .  . 

Where  was  the  earth?     It  could  not  be 

That  everything  was  sunk  in  sea?  .  .  . 

Along  this  darkening  shore  he  drove 

A  monstrous  plough,  the  bright  share  clove 

A  rich  brown  loam,  a  fruitful  earth, 

He  flung  fine  seed,  and  a  flame  of  mirth, 

A  fire  of  roses,  white  and  red, 

Wavered  and  shot  behind  his  tread, 

Shone  and  glistened  and  fanned  and  gleamed: 

With  time,  these  seas  could  be  redeemed  .  .  . 

[92] 


Innocence 

But  darkness  again  destroyed  it  all, 
The  vast  low  sky  began  to  fall, 
A  blackness  sagged  upon  his  brain, 
Crushed,  in  a  blood  red  cloud  of  pain, 
Flattened  him  down  on  hard  cold  sand 
While  bright  seas  rushed  on  either  hand. 
Remote  within  him  a  sweet  voice  spoke, — 
Something  was  lost!     Rich  music  broke, 
The  two  seas  rose  and  gleamed  to  meet, 
Hissed  over  sand,  made  sea  complete, 
They  roared  together,  they  drowned  the  world, 
A  ghostly  vapor  above  them  whirled, 
Drifted  away,  blew  off,  blew  far, 
Leaving  a  darkness  without  star: 
Was  it  the  world,  or  was  it  he, 
That  blew  away  so  peacefully?  .  .  . 


in. 

The  waves  hurried,  the  long  seas  flowed, 
Out  of  the  night  in  hosts  they  rode, 
Seething  and  sinister  and  swift, 
Each,  in  its  destined  place  to  lift 

[93] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

A  darkening  crest  against  pale  sky, 
Glimmer,  unfurl,  and  dazzle  high 
In  a  shatter  of  foam  along  this  shore, 
Withdrawing  slow  with  solemn  roar. 
Who  shall  declare  where  they  began? 
All  night  from  west  to  east  they  ran. 
All  night,  a  terrible  music  sung, 
Unwearying  on  the  cliffs  they  flung,— 
Rose  and  beat,  to  fall  in  beating, 
Greyly  and  endlessly  repeating  .  .  . 
Who  shall  declare  what  hurt  they  did, 
What  murder  among  the  rocks  they  hid? 
Cruel  and  beautiful  they  came; 
And  offered,  without  pride  or  shame, 
The  naked  body,  gashed  and  white, 
Of  him,  who  wooed  the  stars  that  night. 


[94] 


K)I4 


DUST  IN  STARLIGHT 

Earth  Triumphant:  PART  THREE 

Strange  music  filled  his  ears  that  night: 

The  wind  blew  long:  in  ceaseless  white 

The  soft  snow  ticked  his  window-pane, 

And  turned  to  sleet,  and  turned  to  rain; 

And  all  night  long  he  listened  there 

To  the  wild  merriment  in  the  air, 

And  thought  it  strange  that  there  should  be 

Such  fury-driven  night,  while  he 

Lay  in  an  anguish,  stretched  and  torn,   - 

Eyes  wide  with  pain,  unclosed,  forlorn, 

Moveless  upon  his  narrow  bed, 

Tense  fingers  clenched  beneath  his  head  .  .  . 

The  snow  upon  the  sill  piled  dim  .  .  . 

Did  not  this  storm  rise  out  of  him?  .  .  .  , 

And  then  the  sleet,  in  gusty  flaws, 

Pattered  the  panes,  and  in  each  pause 

He  heard  his  heart's  slow  tortured  beating, 

Wearily  through  the  veins  repeating 

[97] 


Nocturne   of  Remembered   Spring 

Pain  and  pleasure,  pain  and  pleasure, 
Life's  simple,  senseless,  tireless  measure. 
Snow  turned  to  sleet,  sleet  turned  to  rain. 
He  lived  his  whole  life  through  again. 
And  while  the  tortured  elm-boughs  moved 
Against  the  eaves,  once  more  he  loved 
This  woman,  she,  the  golden-haired, 
For  whom  first  love  had  been  declared. 
He  closed  his  eyes,  closed  out  the  storm. 
The  air  came  fragrant,  stealing  warm: 
Pregnant  with  lilacs,  shaking  sweet 
Their  purple  crowns  along  the  street; 
While  he,  his  young  soul  turbulent, 
Under  the  stars  through  dark    streets  went, 
Filled  with  a  subtle  fiery  mirth, 
Conscious  of  all  the  moving  earth, — 
The  flagstones  ringing  sweet  and  hard, 
The  shadowy  river  mooned  and  starred, 
The  lovely  lamplit  maple  trees, 
Luminous  green,  wherethrough  the  breeze 
Softly  rustled,  twinkling  leaves, 
And  moving  the  shadows  under  the  eaves. 
The  church-bells  pealed  a  languid  eight: 
He  quickened  pace,  lest  he  be  late. 

[98] 


Dust  in  Starlight 

Music  from  all  the  dark  earth  came, 

The  whole  world  seemed  to  bloom  with  flame, 

And  his  young  body  ran  like  song 

While  rapidly  he  walked  along. 

Remote,  the  bell  rang:  faint  and  fleet: 

With  his  own  heart  the  vast  night  beat : 

And  then,  behind  the  glass  door,  she, 

Far  lovelier  than  a  dream  could  be, 

With  smiling  lips  and  grave  shy  eyes, 

So  beautiful,  so  warm,  so  wise, 

Came  subtly  timid,  subtly  proud, 

Making  his  pulses  push  and  crowd 

And  clamor  and  cry,  while  with  slow  hand, 

Smiling,  she  drew  the  latch,  to  stand, 

Against  the  wall,  whole  leagues  away, 

Shrinking  and  sweet,  no  word  to  say  .  .  . 

Snow  turned  to  sleet,  sleet  turned  to  rain. 

Why  must  he  give  himself  such  pain? 

Why  hark  back  now  to  what  was  dead?         x 

He  clenched  moist  hands  beneath  his  head; 

And  then,  in  sudden  agony, 

Relaxed  in  sudden  misery, 

Turned  on  his  face,  let  fall  the  years, 

And  eased  his  heart  with  birth  of  tears. 

[99] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

Why,  if  he  no  more  loved  her  now, 
Was  it  such  torment,  thinking  how 
She  smiled,  or  spoke,  in  years  gone  by? 
Why  think  how  he  had  made  her  cry, 
This  time  or  that,  with  cruel  word? 
Sharp  through  the  years  her  sob  he  heard, 
Slight  as  a  breath,  a  terrible  thing, 
And  saw  her  hands  repel  and  cling, 
And,  fugitive,  her  eyes,  dark  blue, 
Brim  bright  with  sudden  tears,  wherethrough 
She  looked  from  infinite  distances, 
Beseeching  gaze  fixed  deep  on  his; 
Then  sentences  that  broken  came, 
Dissolving  him  in  flaming  shame  .  .  . 
If  he  had  loved  her  so  much  then, 
Could  he  not  love  her  so  again? 
Her  mouth  seemed  sweet  to  him  a  space : 
The  childish  sweetness  of  her  face: 
Her  soft  gold  hair;  and  thinking  this 
His  throat  filled,  and  he  yearned  to  kiss 
This  face  that  he  had  loved,  and  so, — 
Listening  to  the  tick  of  snow, 
And  all  the  silence,  else,  that  lay 
Through  all  the  house, — he  groped  his  way 

[too] 


Dust  in  Starlight 

To  the  dark  windy  fragrant  room, 

Now  strange  to  him,  and  in  that  gloom 

Stood  motionless  beside  her  bed; 

She  slept,  one  arm  above  her  head; 

And  strangely  tired  this  young  face  seemed, 

And  sad,  as  if  some  grief  she  dreamed. 

He  stooped,  and  kissed  her  forehead  then, 

And  seemed  to  live  dead  love  again, 

With  troubled  heart;  and  once  more  went, 

Not  knowing  well  what  these  things  meant,   - 

To  his  own  room  to  lie  and  stare 

Through  the  black  turmoil  of  the  air; 

While  snow  turned  sleet,  and  sleet  turned  rain, 

And  through  his  heart,  and  through  his  brain, 

Wild  storm  went  whirling,  mad  carouse, 

Tearing  at  roofs  and  breaking  boughs, 

And  strewing  with  havoc  all  the  earth; 

A  terrible  and  a  grievous  mirth  .  .  . 


Dawn  came,  pale  twilight  over  snows. 
He  could  not  sleep.    And  so  he  rose, 
And  dressed  unconsciously,  and  crept 
Past  the  dark  room  where  still  she  slept, 

fioil 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

And  down  the  stairs,  and  through  the  hall. 
He  would  put  end,  now,  to  it  all. 
Put  end? — Not  die,  he  did  not  mean? 
Well,  why  not  die? — The  snow,  unseen, 
Spread  white  around  him,  muffling  thick; 
Eyes  down  he  strode,  his  pace  grew  quick, 
Down  the  long  silence  of  the  hill 
To  the  black  stream,  unfrozen  still. 
Swollen  it  was.     Black  eddies  coiled, 
Over  hid  rocks  it  smoothly  boiled, 
Silent,  intent,  resistless,  slow. 
He  stood  at  gaze.    He  did  not  know. 
By  these  words, —  he  had  not  meant  death? — 
He  blew  a  long  bright  frosty  breath, 
And  watched  it  fade.     The  sun  broke  free, 
Misty  and  red,  and  on  a  tree 
A  crow  cawed,  harshly,  balancing 
With  awkward  jerk  of  tail  and  wing  .  .  . 
Sooner  than  deal  her  so  much  pain, — 
Would  he  not  die?    And  then  again 
He  saw  her  face  go  white  with  grief, 
And  heard  the  incaught  sob,  and  brief, 
Felt  the  breath  quiver  and  sharply  break, 
And  saw  her  eyelids  twitch,  to  take 
[102! 


Dust  in  Starlight 

The  gathering  tears,  unseen,  away; 
While  opened  mouth  grew  racked  and  grey 
Poor  broken,  sweet,  bewildered  thing! 
He  felt  her  fingers  twist  and  cling: 
And  pitied  her, — ah,  pitied  her! — 
And  pitying,  felt  affection  stir: 
Affection  where  there  once  was  love; 
His  heart  felt  pain,  but  did  not  move  .  . 


The  sun  burst  haze,  and  shining  bright 

Set  far  white  distances  alight, 

Flashing  on  tree  and  snow-sheathed  wire, 

And  icicle,  and  set  afire 

Remote  ethereal  fir-topped  hills, 

Dazzling  on  little  snow-fed  rills. 

And  under  this  the  city  lay, 

Soft  harmony  of  gold  and  grey, — 

Drowsy  and  vague  .  .  .    He  would  go  there 

Life  must  be  lived  .  .  .     He  did  not  care  . 

Not  care?    A  pang  swept  up  in  him, 

A  space  the  bright  world  seemed  to  swim, 

Caught  in  regrets  for  things  gone  past, 

Strange  lovely  things  that  could  not  last; 

[103] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

And  it  was  pain,  at  length,  to  go 
From'  one  whom  he  had  once  loved  so, — 
From  one  who  loved  him  so  much  still  .  .  . 
He  turned;  and  slowly  climbed  the  hill, 
Deliberate,  with  measured  pace, 
And  downward  pondering  sightless  face, 
And  gained  the  top;  and  looking  back, 
Over  the  slope  where  lay  his  track, 
Resolved  to  write, — not  see  her  more; 
Then,  in  his  heart,  shut  sharp  that  door. 


Days  pased:  strange  colorless  quiet  days, 
Silent  and  deep.     He  went  his  ways, 
Pleased  with  himself  at  having  will 
To  live  his  life.    And  yet,  so  still, 
So  strangely  laughterless  these  days  went, 
They  filled  him  with  queer  discontent. 
His  ears  craved  speech  to  listen  to; 
His  hands  craved  touch  of  hands  they  knew. 
His  eyes, — what  yearning  glimmered  there? 
Yearning  for  what  eyes,  and  what  hair? 
Strange  turn  of  things!  even  in  work 
These  hollow  silences  came  to  lurk; 

[104] 


Dust  in  Starlight 

A  queer  starvation;  soft  and  slow, 
Caressingly,  his  hands  would  go 
Over  smooth  surfaces  of  things, 
Seeming  to  feel  them  soft  as  wings; 
And  little  phrases  she  had  said 
Recurred  like  music  in  his  head  .  .  . 
Persistent  habit?     That  was  it: 
His  pain  was  sweet,  was  exquisite; 
Exquisite  most  because  of  knowing 
That  all  this  loveiness  was  going, 
A  passing  thing,  a  fading  thing, 
Which  never  again  the  years  could  bring 
Silence  came  soft  upon  the  air, 
Deep  silence  that  he  could  not  bear; 
Dropping,  between  pace  and  pace, 
Infinite  loneliness  of  space ; 
Dropping,  between  tick  and  chime, 
Infinite  loneliness  of  time; 
And  between  word  and  seldom  word 
Abysmal  nothingness  was  heard  .  .  . 
Unbearable!     A  thing  not  known. 
He  must  be  blunt,  make  life  his  own, 
Shatter  this  solitude  with  cries, 
Shut  out  the  appalling  peace  of  skies, 
[105] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

Roof  out  the  stars,  hear  music  playing, 
And  hear  what  everyone  was  saying, — 
Drink  down  their  words,  like  subtlest  wine, 
And  laughter,  making  faces  shine!  .  .  . 


Along  the  river  in  curving  row 
The  evening  lights  began  to  glow ; 
Over  the  bridges,  grey  and  vast, 
The  luminous  long  trains  glided  past, 
From  crowded  houses  came  the  people, 
The  hugh  moon  rose  behind  a  steeple, 
And  in  the  deepening  western  sky 
Now  one  by  one  and  cold  and  high 
The  winter  stars  came  out,  to  stare 
Pitiless  down  through  frozen  air. 
He  walked  alone  through  azure  shadows, 
Looked  longingly  through  lighted  windows, 
And  passed  the  moving-picture  doors 
Through  crowds  of  loungers,  pimps  and  whores 
Why  not  go  in?    Faint  music  came 
Around  him  like  a  gust  of  flame, 
Dissolving  him  with  promises 
Of  warmth  and  lights  and  ecstasies, — 

[106] 


Dust  in  Starlight 
Of  hope  that  in  the  theatre,  dim, 

. 

Some  woman  might  sit  next  to  him, 

With  half -seen  face,  in  shadow,  sweet, 

Humming,  or  beating  time  with  feet. 

His  ticket  bought  he  hastened  in, 

Hearing  the  wail  of  violin, 

And  down  the  black  aisle  stumbled,  blind, 

Straining  his  unused  eyes,  to  find 

An  empty  seat,  while  overhead 

The  long  bright  shaft  of  light  was  shed, 

Pouring  and  whirring,  weaving  rays, 

Intense  white  stream,  wherein  a  maze 

Of  fiery  motes  whirled  up  and  rose 

And  dived  and  swarmed.     A  seat  he  chose 

And  sat  and  watched  the  vivid  screen, 

Rapidly  ever-changing  scene, 

While  music,  subtly  tuned  thereto, 

Sang  and  cried,  and  minutes  flew, 

To  violin  and  horn  and  drum  .  .  . 

And  yet,  through  all  these  things,  would  come 

A  strange,  an  aching  loneliness, 

A  yearning  for  some  loveliness, 

For  touch  of  hands,  for  touch  of  hair, 

Soft  flesh  to  stroke  .  .  .     Beside  him  there 

[107] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

No  woman  came,  no  girl,  and  he 
Sat  mute  in  lonely  misery: 
And  wondered,  if  a  woman  came, 
If  he  could  speak,  or  whether  shame 
Would  silence  him,  or,  maybe,  fear. 
But  still  none  came.     The  end  drew  near, 
He  rose;  a  vague  unhappiness 
Came  over  him,  a  restlessness. 
Where  turn?     Beneath  cold  stars  he  stood, 
Perplexed,  in  dark  uncertain  mood, 
While  laughing  people  jostled  by, 
And  voices  lifted,  words  were  high, 
And  street  lights  glared  on  healthy  faces. 
A  foolish  mirth  !  .  .  .       He  longed  for  places 
Where  there  was  hush,  and  dark,  and  peace  .  .  . 
The  moon  swam  coldly  .  .  .     Without  cease 
Along  the  echoing  river  wall 
He  heard  the  short  waves  slap  and  fall, 
Quarrel  and  splash,  gurgle  and  fill; 
And  here  he  walked,  where  night  was  still, 
Save  for  the  waters;  where  alone 
His  loud  steps  rang  on  freezing  stone; 
While  silent,  swift,  before  him  ran 
Shadow  grotesquely  like  a  man, 
[108] 


Dust  in  Starlight 

Flown  long  and  thin,  to  wheel  in  fright 
At  nearness  to  another  light, 
And  flee  behind, — its  master  kept 
Between  it  and  the  light  .  .  .    He  stept 
Quickly,  with  this  for  company, 
Through  light  cold  wind,  and  quietly 
Pondered  the  meaning  of  these  days. 
Was  he  not  free  to  go  his  ways? 
Was  he  not  free?  pain  swelled  his  heart, 
He  struck  the  mood  and  tore  apart. 
Pale  sentiment,  no  more.     Grown  stern, 
To  his  own  rooms  he  made  return, 
Drinking  the  sharp  air  icily 
With  vague  belief  it  made  him  free  .  .  . 
He  stumbled  in  the  unknown  gloom; 
And  sought  a  match  .  .  .     Somehow  this  room 
Seemed  silent,  empty,  strangely  cold, 
A  hollow  place,  a  place  unsouled. 
A   loose  board   creaked   beneath   his   tread. 
The  darkness  listened.     In  his  bed, 
Coldly  upon  him,  slimy  cold, 
Sluggishly,  fold  on  quiet  fold, 
It  seemed  to  him  the  silence  crept 
To  make  it  sure  he  never  slept ; 

[109] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

And  all  the  long  night  through  it  seemed, — 
(He  knew  not  if  he  waked  or  dreamed, — ) 
As  if  some  person  loved  had  died  .  .  . 
He  lay  and  stared,  grey-lipped,  wide-eyed. 


Winter  seemed  breaking  up  at  last : 

With  winter  would  this  pain  be  past? 

Across  the  river  a  warm  wind  blew, 

And  strange  and  secret  joy  he  knew: 

An  inward  creeping  pangful  thing 

Which  made  cold  memory  wake  and  sing. 

He  had  felt  wind  like  this  with  her, 

When  they  walked  hills  through  pines  and  fir  . 

O  times  of  youth!  he  saw  her  now 

Reach  sunlit  hand  to  break  a  bough, 

Which  then,  released,  sprang  back  again  .  .  . 

Would  sun  shine  brightly,  soon,  as  then? — 

Dark  clouds  rushed  suddenly  up  the  sky, 

Devouring  all  blue  heaven's  eye. 

The  wind  grew  fitful,  thrusting  chill; 

The  sun  went  dim;  and  slow  and  still, 

Hovering  and  reluctant,  fell 

A  few  soft  snow-flakes,  to  foretell 


Dust  in  Starlight 

Snow  falling  through  the  muted  night, 
Drifting  the  streets  with  silent  white, 
Steadily  falling,  whirling,  blowing  .  .  . 
So  in  his  mind,  now,  it  was  snowing, 
Silent,  persistent:  whelming  deep 
A  much-loved  world  in  frozen  sleep, 
Burying  it,  eternally  .  .  . 
He  worked,  to  lose  this  agony  .  .  . 
Till,  chancing,  in  his  desk,  to  find 
A  letter  long  since  out  of  mind, 
From  her,  one  sent  two  years  ago, — 
He  turned  it,  angry :  did  not  know 
If  he  had  strength  to  read  it  through; 
Then  suddenly  tore  it  twice  in  two; 
And  burned  the  pieces,  every  one, 
The  small  words  she  had  breathed  upon, 
And  seeing  it  shrink  in  eager  flame 
Took  subtle  pleasure,  shot  with  shame  .  . 


A  loneliness  like  silent  night, 
Came  round  him  cold,  came  round  him  white, 
And  all  sounds  grew  remote  therein; 
Voices  he  knew  fled  far  and  thin; 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

Slowly   familiar  things  withdrew 

Beyond  the  little  earth  he  knew; 

And  in  this  hush,  grown  still  and  strange, 

With  quiet  breath  he  watched  this  change 

Slowly  and  deeply  touch  his  life. 

Was  this  the  absence  of  his  wife? 

Mere  madness  then:  companionship 

Meant  the  lip's  need  for  meeting  lip, 

Of  hand  for  hand  and  limb  for  limb. 

This  woman's  flesh  had  wearied  him. 

Why  not  have  new?     Had  she  some  hold? 

No,  there  was  none.     His  heart  lay  cold  .  .  . 

From  the  high  window  he  looked  down 

On  huddled  roofs,  the  snow-white  town, 

The  steam-clouds,  blowing,  sprawling,  sliding, 

Fleet  shadows  underneath  them  gliding. 

Strange,  what  a  tangle  life  became 

As  one  grew  old  ...     And  what  a  shame 

That  childhood's  sweet  simplicity 

Should  stagnate  in  such  shape  as  he ! 

Could  that  sweet  freshness  be  renewed? 

He  mused  in  disillusioned  mood, 

And  in  his  musing  backward  went 

Out  of  this  day  of  discontent 


Dust  in  Starlight 

To  a  merry  world  of  leafy  boughs, 

Where  orioles  were  keeping  house, 

And  brown  bees  tumbling  in  the  clover, 

And  sunshine  on- sweet  grass,  whereover, 

Feeling  it  prickly  warm,  he  stole 

Intent  to  find  a  locust  hole  .  .  . 

A  fountain  in  a  garden  pool 

Shot  a  slim  shaft  and  spattered  cool, 

And  on  this  ever-changing  shaft 

A  quivering  white  ball  danced  and  laughed  .  .  . 

He  called  to  mind  how  one  night,  late, 

They  came  home  through  the  garden  gate, 

And  all  the  garden  brimmed  and  spilled 

With  moonlight,  silver-grey,  that  filled 

The  paths  and  lawns,  and  on  the  wall, 

Where  windy  vine-leaves  seemed  to  crawl, 

Cast  blue  mysterious  stencillings, 

Filling  his  heart  with  elvish  things. 

Were  those  things  lost,  that  rain,  that  sun, 

And  would  he  no  more  laugh  and  run 

When  a  hurdy-gurdy  filled  the  street 

With  vibrant  music,  sharply  sweet? 

His  mother)  too, — he  saw  her  now, — 

Soft  eyes,  her  wise  and  tranquil  brow, 


Nocturne  of   Remembered   Spring 

Her  mouth,  so  sweet,  so  warm,  so  sure, 
Her  hands,  so  gentle,  so  secure  .  .  . 
He  would  not  see  that  face  again, 
Nor  feel  its  softness,  soft  as  rain  .  .  . 
.  Why  did  these  things  come  back  to  him? 
What  music  in  him,  flowing  dim, 
Disturbed  these  long-dead  melodies, 
These  chords  of  muffled  ecstasies? 
What  soft  hand  stroked  these  sleeping  things, 
Filling  the  darkness  as  with  wings, 
With  ghostly  laughter,  ghostly  tears, 
Now  poignant  through  the  lapse  of  years?  .  .  . 
A  music  sweet  to  listen  to: 
And  vaguely  now  it  seemed  he  knew 
Whence  came  this  quiet  loveliness, 
Suffusing  all  his  loneliness; 
Weary  at  length  of  dust,  of  earth 
Grown  too  familiar,  that  young  mirth 
Seemed  doubly  sweet,  desirable, 
And  those  illusions: — credible 
To  such  young  heart,  to  such  brave  eyes, 
Lost  in  the  wonder  of  those  skies ! 
Illusions  lost  .  .  .     Could  he  no  more 
Build  castles  on  infinity's  shore?  .  .  . 

[114] 


Dust  in  Starlight 

Then  softly  through  these  musings  rose, 
Like  warm  air  bringing  pain  to  snows, 
Subtle  belief,  dissolving  warm, 
Slowly  and  painfully  taking  form, 
That  with  his  dying  love  for  her 
Had  died  these  dreams  she  set  astir; 
And  now  these  dreams  were  turned  to  dust, 
All  his  illusions  turned  to  lust  . 


The  world  flew  small,  remote  and  dim, — 
Shrilling  thin  music  faint  to  him; 
The  hostile  sun  withdrew  afar, 
Compelling  with  it  moon  and  star; 
All  the  great  seas  of  light  that  run 
Flowing  and  falling   from  the  sun, 
The  tides  of  life,  majestic,  vast, 
Invisibly  receded,  passed 
In  darkness  down,  with  murmurous  roar, 
As  seas  withdraw  down  shingle  shore, 
Into  a  night  turned  fathomless, 
So  silent,  cold  and  rhythmless  .  .  . 
Desolate,  bleak,  in  wind  he  stood, 
Questioning  freezing  solitude, 


Nocturne  of  Remembered   Spring 

Searching  the  darkness  with  dark  face, 
Hearing  his  heart  through  empty  space 
With  tired  beating,  with  tortured  beating, 
Wearily  through  his  veins  repeating 
Pain  and  pleasure,  pain  and  pleasure, 
Life's  simple  senseless  stubborn  measure. 
.  There  was  no  star,  there  was  no  stone, 
Which  he  could  touch  and  call  his  own; 
There  was  no  tree,  no  grass,  no  place, 
That  knew  his  touch,  and  no  warm  face 
Which  might  towards  him  turn  and  fire 
Should  he  go  near  with  dumb  desire. 
O  earth,  who  sent  this  soul  so  straying, 
O  earth  triumphant,  earth  betraying, 
Luring  aside  with  music  sweet 
These  all  too  swift,  too  eager  feet! 
What  recompense? — The  night  came  deep, 
Upon  his  heart  dropped  barren  sleep, 
Soundless  and  songless,  never  stirring, 
Time  and  identical  time  recurring, 
Cold  and  slow,  cold  and  slow, 
Whelming  his  small  heart  deep  in  snow, 
Bewildered,  lost,  a  child  again, 
Mutely  enduring  strangest  pain 

[116] 


Dust  in  Starlight 

Beyond  all  knowledge  or  all  cry, 
Strange  pain  inflicted  by  strange  sky. 
Where  lift  his  hands  to,  where  now  reach, 
Where  fling  his  body,  where  beseech?  .  .  . 
Silence,  interminable,  vast, 
Over  his  heart  its  shadow  cast, 
He  lay  outstretched,  a  bleeding  thing  .  .  . 
When,  lo,  remote  began  to  sing 
A  little  voice,  soft,  hardly  heard; 
Faint  and  remote  the  darkness  stirred, 
Wings  were  beating,  shadows  lifting, 
Stars  through  clouds  flew  wildly  drifting, 
Went  dark  again,  again  shone  through 
Effulgent  in  a  rent  of  blue; 
And  slow  seductive  music  came 
Softly  upon  him,  soft  as  flame, 
Caressing  him,  dissolving  him ; 
The  world  in  moonlight  seemed  to  swim ; 
The  light  poured  down,  like  waters  rose, 
Over  him,  drowning,  seemed  to  close, 
Turbulent,  rushing,  roaring,  singing, 
Sweeping  him  helpless,  wildly  clinging, 
Catching  in  vain  at  star  and  moon 
While  all  his  senses  seemed  to  swoon  ... 


Nocturne  of   Remembered   Spring 

Huge  bells  upon  his  body  rang, 

Clang  upon  liberating  clang, 

The  whole  world  cracked  and  opened  up 

Spilling  its  splendor  like  a  cup, 

The  sun  stood  still  beneath  his  feet, — 

Behold!  security  was  sweet. 


O  laughter  of  the  living  earth, 
O  greenly  springing  time  of  mirth! 
Fire  through  all  earth's  bosom  ran 
In  concord  with  the  mood  of  man, 
And  upward  moved  in  luminous  green 
To  the  dreamed-of  sun  for  ages  seen. 
The  moonlight  poured  her  silver  down 
On  waiting  furrows  dreaming  brown; 
Was  he  not  furrow  ploughed  like  these 
Now  drinking  deep  of  April's  ease, 
Drinking  of  rains  and  drinking  sun 
For  nurture  of  new  youth  just  begun? — 
He  grew  in  stature,  touched  the  sky; 
Commanded,  with  imperious  eye, 
All  earth  and  heaven,  now  so  young 
[118] 


Dust  in  Starlight 

With  April's  fires  within  him  sung  .  .  . 

Was  not  first  love  forgotten,  dead?  .  .  . 

The  little  phrases  she  had  said 

Once  more  in  darkness  now  recurred, 

Clearly  and  sweetly,  word  by  word, — 

And  left  him  cold  .  .  .    He  yawned  and  smiled 

Yes,  she  was  after  all  a  child, — 

Sweet  because  childish,  briefly  sweet, — 

An  April  sunlight,  flashing  fleet  .  .  . 

She  had  been  sweet  to  touch,  to  kiss; 

But  once  forgotten,  would  he  miss? 

Under  the  eaves  the  bare  boughs  moved, 

Scraping  the  wall  .  .  .    This  girl,  once  loved, 

He  loved  no  more;  and  now  he  sent 

Out  of  his  heart,  to  banishment, 

This  face,  these  eyes,  this  golden  hair; 

And  lying  dark  in  comfort  there, 

It  seemed  he  put  down  tenderly     • 

Her  hands,  that  clung  beseechingly  - 

To  hold  his  heart, — freed  one  by  one 

Finger  from  finger,  put  them  down; 

And  pondering  on  this  painful  thing 

Felt  pleasure  through  his  pulses  sting  .  .  . 


Nocturne  of   Remembered   Spring 

The  long  days  opened,  full  and  sweet, 
Music  through  all  their  hours  beat, 
The  sun  waxed  warm,  the  trees  flashed  green, 
The  birds  sang  loud  the  boughs  between, — 
Their  songs  were  in  his  own  heart  sung, 
And  all  the  earth  seemed  once  more  young. 
His  loneliness — was  it  not  need 
Of  flesh  for  flesh?     So,  once  more  freed, 
He  took  a  girl  to  walk  with  him 
One  twilight  by  the  river;  dim, 
The  lustrous  flow  beneath  them  spread, 
Where  lamps  threw  green  and  lamps  threw  red, 
And  all  along  the  shadowy  walk 
The  lovers  came  to  laugh  and  talk, 
To  lean  upon  the  parapet 
Against  the  river  in  silhouette, 
Discussing  sweet,  in  lowest  tone, 
The  moon, — until   that  night  unknown  ! — 
Which  burned  behind  the  chimney-pots 
And  rilled  with  magic  vacant  lots  .  .  . 
Along  the  stones  they  scuffed  their  feet, 
Loitering  much,  for  life  was  sweet, 
To  count  the  stars  above  the  steeple, 
And  search  the  eyes  of  all  the  people, 

[120] 


Dust  in  Starlight 

To  laugh  at  dresses  out  of  fashion 
Or  some  too  frank  display  of  passion. 
He  paused,  to  light  a  cigarette. 
She  said  how  glad  she  was  they'd  met : 
Watching  with  wistful  eyes  the  flame 
That  warmly  lit  his  hands. — Her  name — 
It  hardly  mattered  though? — was  May; 
The  name  was  common,  out  her  way. 
He  took  her  arm;  they  strolled  along, 
While  bargemen  sang  a  smutty  song; 
And  one  by  one,  remotely,  then, 
The  church  bells  pealed  the  hour  of  ten  .  . 
.  .  .  Pretty,  the  river  was,  at  night 
When  all  the  lanterns  were  alight!  .  .  . 
Her  arm  beneath  his  thumb  was  warm. 
Desire  in  him  took  eager  form, 
The  blood  rose  blossoming  to  his  brain, 
He  gripped  her  hand  to  point  of  pain. 
Yes,  it  was  pretty  .  .  .     like  romance  .  .  . 
Their  eyes  met,  in  a  furtive  glance, 
And  could  not  look  away,  but  burned 
Into  each  other's  soul,  and  yearned, 
Shameless  and  large,  for  flesh,  now  sweet, 
And  the  pulses'  beat  confused  with  beat  . 

[121] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

They  stood  so,  silent,  swaying  slightly, 
Smile  meeting  intimate  smile ;  then  lightly, 
'Time  to  go  home? — '  and  while  she  talked 
Along  more  luminous  streets  they  walked, 
Affecting  an  airiness  of  tone 
Far  from  the  blood's  intense  sweet  drone, 
And  a  light  laughter,  smooth  and  sweet, 
Mantling  the  heart's  terrific  beat. 
His  hand  beneath  her  elbow  pressed, 
Feeling  the  softness  of  her  breast, 
Her  breast  now  his;  he  could  not  speak; 
He  leaned  to  her,  grown   faintly  weak; 
His  lips  grew  dry;  and  suddenly  came 
Sharp  realization  of  his  shame, 
Torrents  of  memories  filled  his  brain 
Clouding  the  flesh's  bliss  with  pain, 
Whirling  his  thoughts  out  lik^  a  wind. 
Was  it  betrayal, — had  he  sinned? 
Tumult  ensued.     He  felt  her  arm 
Under  his  hand,  so  living  warm, 
And  feeling  this,  he  closed  his  eyes, 
Forbade  those  troubling  dreams  to  rise, 
And  suddenly  laughed,  more  swiftly  walking, 
Listened  intently,  started  talking, 
[122] 


Dust  in  Starlight 

And  squeezed  her  hand;  for  answer  came 

A  smile  indulgent,  free  from  shame, 

A  smile  that  stripped  her  body  bare, 

Let  down  her  golden-laddered  hair  .  .  . 

Within  her  room,  she  stood  a  space 

To  doff  her  hat;  then  raised  her  face 

Drowsy,  to  kiss,  with  half-shut  eyes, 

And  clung.     He  felt  her  full  breast  rise 

Quivering,  soft,  beneath  his  breast ; 

Body  to  aching  body  pressed, 

Knee  sought  for  knee  to  fuse  with  it; 

Mouth  upon  mouth  fed  exquisite; 

Fierce  hand  caught  shoulder,  yielding  waist, 

Flesh  drank  of  flesh,  to  pain  embraced, 

Slowly,  ecstatically  moving, 

Greedy  of  every  second's  loving; 

Till,  weakening  with  the  ultimate  kiss, 

She  opened  soft  her  mouth  to  his. 

,  v 
Torrential  flesh !— The  darkness  fell. 

Far  off  ran  reelings  of  a  bell 
Around  the  sky;  then  all  was  still 
Save  for  vague  steps  that  climbed  a  hill, 
That  climbed  and  climbed,  drew  ever  near, 
Came  up,  grew  swift,  swelled  loud  and  clear, 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

Brought  rush  of  winds,  confusing  roar, 
Huge  waters  upon  a  sandy  shore, 
Reverberating,  falling,  beating, 
Withdrawing  rhythmical,   repeating, 
Filling  the  night,  the  seas,  the  air, 
Rising  and  falling  everywhere; 
Withdrawal  slow;  succeeding  rush; 
Clamor  and  hush;  clamor  and  hush  .  .  . 
Vast  bells  upon  his  body  rang, 
Clang  upon  liberating  clang: 
The  whole  world  cracked  and  opened  up 
And  spilled  its  splendor  like  a  cup. 


O  darkness,  drenching  all  things  deep, 
Profound  impenetrable  sleep, 
Falling  so  sweetly  and  so  slowly 
To  make  even  dust  in  starlight  holy, 
Falling  at  last  on  time  and  space, — 
O  darkness, — loveliest  of  face! 
Bringing  intense  and  wearied  light 
Secure  at  last  to  restful  night; 
Bringing  to  cool  peace  the  sun's  heat 


Dust  in  Starlight 

Whose  feverish  golden  hammers  beat 
All  day  long,  on  stubborn  soil 
And  stubborn  bough,  in  fruitful  toil, — 
All  the  fierce  youthlight  wearied  so 
In  pouring  life,  in  aching  flow ! — 
Now  came  this  darkness  softly  down 
Together  bliss  and  pain  to  drown 
In  soundless  perfectly  pouring  stream, 
Dark  lustrous  flood  unflecked  by  dream. 
Remote  the  world  in  wrhispers  flew, 
Remote  the  stars  and  moon  withdrew, 
The  tides  moved  slowly,  sleepily, 
The  weary  blood  moved  sluggishly ; 
While  heart,  asleep,  went  ever  beating, 
Wearily  through  the  veins  repeating 
Pain  and  pleasure,  pain  and  pleasure, 
Life's  simple,  senseless,  tireless  measure  . 
Forgetfulness,  forgetfulness, 
Came  down  upon  all  weariness, 
Suffusing  warm  and  sure  and  slow 
The  blood's  alternate  pause  and  flow ; 
Profound  impenetrable  death 
Laid  hush  on  all  save  gentle  breath  .  .  . 
O  fevered  world  could  you  but  keep 


Nocturne   of   Remembered  Spring 

Forever  so  this  dreamless  sleep!  .  .  . 

Bells  pealed.     Night  passed.     The  hours  rushed  on. 

Dawn  came,  then  day;  then  night,  then  dawn. 


A  strangely  tranquil  thing  was  earth: 

Clear  light,  unsmiling,  without  mirth. 

Through  the  young  grass,  in  the  bright  air, 

Tranquillity  hung  everywhere, 

A  calm,  a  slow,  deliberate  thing, 

Bewitching  even  the  bravest  wing. 

He  peered:  he  could  not  understand, 

But  walked  as  in  an  unknown  land. 

The  leaves  hung  motionless  in  sky; 

Water  enchanted  seemed  to  lie; 

The  faint  waves  fell  asleep,  half  shaped; 

The  breeze  to  nothingness  escaped. 

All  earth,  as  touched  by  wind  of  death, 

Seemed  holding  in  suspense  her  breath, 

Stirless,  dreamless,  soulless,  still, 

A  slumber  of  arrested  will. 

Who  would  dare  break  this  silence  now, 

Whose  hand  would  shake  this  dreaming  bough, 


Dust  in  Starlight 

Set  trembling  all  these  leaves  once  more, 
Or  urge  the  ripples  up  the  shore? 
Tranquillity  was  all  reply: 
The  answer  less  calmness  of  the  sky; 
And  turning  from  its  senseless  stare, 
He  saw  his  shadow  crouching  there, 
A  shadow  ominous,  ugly,  deep; 
Even  as  he  looked  it  seemed  to  creep 
Stealthily  close  .  .  .     He  turned  away. 
And  suddenly  all  the  grass  seemed  grey. 


Listless,  he  touched  piano  keys: 
The  long  unpractised  melodies 
Came  broken  from  his  fingers,  stirred 
Vague  hints  of  color,  sound  and  word, — 
A  world  that  he  had  lost  somewhere, 
A  world  where  sunshine  filled  the  air  ... 
It  was  not  sad,  but  pleasant,  so 
To  call  to  mind  things  long  ago  .  .  . 
This  simple  childlike  little  tune, — 
Meant  roses  on  a  night  in  June; 
In  a  cool  shadowy  bowl  they  lay 
A  fragrant  leafy  disarray, — 


Nocturne   of  Remembered   Spring 

Whole-hearted  opulence  of  bloom 

Glowing  and  musical  in  the  gloom. 

O  golden  hearts!     He  saw  them  yet, 

Glistening,  widely  opened,  wet  .  .  . 

Whose  careful  hands  had  put  them  there? 

Who,  with  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair?  .  .  . 

The  simple  notes  like  water  dropped, 

Asked  a  sweet  question,  laughed,  and  stopped  .  . 

This  harsher  thing — what  did  it  mean? 

This  was  remoter,  dimly  seen — 

School  days,  a  winter  evening  coming, 

White  glistening  night,  the  wild  blood  humming, 

A  run  through  drifts,  in  shadowy  places, 

Then  lights  and  warmth  and  well-known  faces 

Something  sinister  here  .  .  .     though  most 

Was  warmly  colored,  still, — a  ghost  .  .  . 

He  marred  a  chord  and  stopped  .  .  .  yet  fingered 

And  tapped  stray  keys,  a  long  time  lingered 

On  certain  minor  tones,  that  beat 

Into  his  soul, — seductive,  sweet. 

Twilight  had  come.     In  dark  he  played, 

Being  obscurely,  now,  afraid 

To  rise  from  shadow,  turn  on  light, 

And  so  disclose  ...  an  empty  night  .  .  . 


Dust  in  Starlight 

How  queerly  hard  now  to  believe 
That  this  was  not  a  winter's  eve!  .  .  . 
He  stood  by  the  window,  looking  far 
Over  black  roofs  to  one  large  star, 
And  felt  great  clouds  of  darkness  rise 
Under  horizon  of  those  skies, 
Silent  and  swift,  a  baleful  dream, 
Soon  to  devour  that  one  star's  gleam. 
Pregnant  with  lightnings,  these  clouds  were  .  .  . 
A  light  wind  set  the  leaves  astir  .  .  . 
Uneasily,  in  puffs,  they  showed 
Pale  undersides;  along  the  road, 
Under  the  arc-lights,  dust  was  whirling, 
In  sinister  little  spirals  twirling  .  .  . 
The  night  was  ominous  with  threat. 
He  slept;  and  yet  could  not  forget, 
In  sleep,  how  sudden  storm  came  down 
Over  the  silence  of  the  town; 
He  heard  the  first  slow  drops  of  rain 
Patter  upon  a  far-off  pane, 
And  pause  a  moment,  and  repeat, 
And  hurry  in  unison,  then,  to  beat 
A  multitudinous  rhythm  there, 
Steady,  exhaustless,  like  despair  .  .  . 
[129] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

What  gave  such  talons  to  this  rain? 

He  lived  his  whole  life  through  again  .  .  . 

That  night  two  months  ago  recalling 

When  snow  and  sleet  were  all  night  falling, 

When  storm  whirled  up  from  all  his  life, 

Being  tired  at  last,  of  her,  his  wife. 

It  seemed  again  he  suffered  there, 

And  heard  the  elm-boughs  creaking  bare, 

Scraping  the  eaves,  in  agony, 

Tossed  by  relentless  wind,  while  he 

Lay  in  an  anguish,  stretched  and  torn, 

Eyes  wide  with  pain,  unclosed,  forlorn  .  .  . 

Had  he  then,  once,  so  deeply  loved 

This  woman,  now  so  far  removed? 

He  closed  his  eyes,  closed  out  the  storm : 

The  air  came  fragrant,  stealing  warm,— 

Pregnant  with  lilacs,  shaking  sweet 

Their  purple  crowns  along  the  street ; 

While  he,  his  young  soul  turbulent, 

Under  the  stars  through  dark  streets  went  .  . 

The  church  bells  pealed  a  languid  eight: 

He  quickened  pace  lest  he  be  late  .  .  . 

And  then,  behind  the  glass  door,  she, 

Far  lovelier  than  a  dream  could  be, 


Dust  in  Starlight 

With  smiling  lips  and  grave  shy  eyes, 

So  beautiful,  so  warm,  so  wise  .  .  . 

Came  subtly  timid,  subtly  proud, 

Making  his  pulses  push  and  crowd  .  .  . 

And  clamor  and  cry  .  .  .  while  with  slow  hand, 

Smiling,  she  drew  the  latch,  to  stand 

Against  the  wall,  whole  leagues  away, 

Shrinking  and  sweet,  no  word  to  say  .  .  . 

Cold  came  the  talons  of  this  rain. 

Why  must  he  give  himself  such  pain? 

Why  hark  back  now  to  what  was  dead?  .  .  . 

Lost  was  the  magic  of  that  head  .  .  . 

Forever  lost,  with  youth  and  all 

Bright  dreams  that  fall  when  youth  must  fall. 

Was  he  not  now  of  all  this  free, 

This  specious  glamour,  witchery, 

Contented  now  with  humble  dust: 

Forswearing  love,  espousing  lust? 

This  woman  by  the  river,  then, — 

He  saw  her  drowsy  face  again ; 

Had  she  not  wholly  satisfied? 

Had  lust  not  found  its  perfect  bride  ?  .  .  . 

The  pulses  murmurous  through  his  veins 

Bore  multitudinous  tread  of  rains, 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

Unhappy  ceaseless  melodies, 

Tireless,  tireless,  threnodies. 

Was  something  lost,  some  lovely  thing, 

Flash  of  blossom,  whir  of  wing, 

Hover  of  dream,  the  sun  that  lies 

Perpetual  myth  in  childhood's  eyes? 

Was  this  worth  having?  could  he  go 

Back  to  that  world?  .  .  .    He  did  not  know  .  .  . 

But  thought  again  how  he  had  crept 

Through  the  dark  house  to  where  she  slept, 

With  one  arm  lying  above  her  there, 

Amid  her  lustrous  spread  of  hair, 

And  how  the  sweetness  of  her  face 

Had  caught  his  heart  a  breathing  space, 

And  how  he  kissed  her  then,  and  went, 

(Not  knowing  well  what  these  things  meant,) 

To  his  own  room  again,  to  lie 

In  stretched  and  tortured  misery. 

So  she  would  sleep  when  she  was  dead: 

Dishevelled,  pale  .  .  . 


Dust  in  Starlight 

Swift  through  his  head 
Came  words  and  phrases  she  had  spoken, 
Huddled  and  breathless,  halting,  broken,— 
Disturbing  music,  word  by  word, 
The  well-known  phrases  he  had  heard, 
Day  after  day,  so  many  years; 
Till  in  his  wide  eyes,  warm,  crept  tears  .  .  . 
Could  he  go  back  to  her  once  more, — 
And  all  the  young  bright  world  she  wore, 
That  world  of  luminous  rain  and  sun, 
All  of  whose  brightness  now  was  done? 
And,  if  he  loved  her  now,  could  she 
Bring  back  life's  lost  simplicity?  .  .  . 
Through  all  his  blood  flew  gusts  of  rain  .  . 
And  suddenly  now  it  all  seemed  plain : 
It  was  his  soul's  returning  need 
For  her  from  whom  he  thought  it  freed, 
That  drove  him  forth,  two  nights  ago, 
To  love  a  girl  he  did  not  know ; 
And  now  his  whole  soul  turned  again 
To  her  whom  he  had  dealt  such  pain  ... 
Why,  if  he  loved  her  no  more  now, 
Was  it  such  torment,  thinking  how 
She  smiled,  or  spoke,  in  years  gone  by? 

[133] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring- 
Why  think  how  he  had  made  her  cry, 
This  time  or  that,  with  callous  word? — 
Sharp  through  the  years  her  sob  he  heard, 
Slight  as  a  breath,  a  terrible  thing, 
And  saw  her  hands  repel  and  cling, 
And,  fugitive,  her  eyes,  dark  blue, 
Brim  bright  with  sudden  tears,  wherethrough 
She  looked  from  infinite  distances, 
Beseeching  gaze  fixed  deep  on  his; 
Then  sentences  that  broken  came 
-^   Dissolving  him  in  flaming  shame  .  .   . 
Could  he  not  now  arise  from  lust, — 
Nobler  than  dust,  arise  from  dust?  .  .  . 
And  all  this  intervening  space — 
How  had  she  been? — With  frightened  face 
He  watched  the  darkness, — quivering,  still ; 
Had  she  been  well?     Had  she  been  ill? 
And  suddenly,  mute,  went  up  the  cry— 
O  God  if  somehow  she  should  die ! 
O  God,  what  dream !  and  stiff  with  pain 
He  felt  the  pattering  of  this  rain 
Cold  on  his  heart,  a  taloned  thing, 
Tireless,  ceaseless,  maddening, 
While  through  it  all  he  dreamed  that  she 

[134] 


Dust  in  Starlight 

Lay  dead  for  all  eternity, 
Dishevelled,   pale,  unbreathing,   cold, 
Soon  to  be  buried  under  mould, 
All  her  young  laughter,  her  sweet  mirth, 
Covered  deep  in  soft  brown  earth  .  .  . 
Oh  utterly  desirable! 
Oh  pain  so  unendurable ! 
To  think  that  she  had  died  alone, 
There  in  her  room,  and  never  known 
Through  all  these  days  before  she  died 
That  still,  through  all,  his  heart  had  cried 
Unceasingly  for  her,  though  he, 
Being  young  and  foolish,  ceaselessly 
Refused  to  hear  it,  turned  away, 
And  walked  through  sorrow  day  by  day  .  .  . 
This  rain — did  it  not  fall  to-night 
Above  her  body's  hidden  white, 
Stealing  through  all  that  darkness  down 
To  damp  her  hair  and  stain  with  brown 
Her  small  soft  eyelids,  fast  shut  now, 
And  the  white  wisdom  of  her  brow? 
O  earth,  that  you  should  humble  deep 
Such  rose  as  this  in  endless  sleep ! 
And  suddenly  then,  released  of  weight, 

[135] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

He  knew  her  living,  and  elate 

Caught  sharp  his  heart  on  verge  of  laughter, 

Drew  a  deep  tranquil  breath,  and  after, 

Being  dropped  in  quiet  misery, 

Relaxed  in  sudden  agony, 

Turned  on  his  face,  let  fall  the  years, 

And  eased  his  heart  with  birth  of  tears. 

O  foolish,  blind,  courageous  youth! 

He  knew  at  last  the  secret  truth. 

Confusion  came  .  .  .     This  little  tune 

Meant  roses  on  a  night  in  June  .  .  . 

In  a  cool  shadowy  bowl  they  lay, 

A  fragrant  green-leaved  disarray. 

Whose  careful  hands  had  put  them  there, — 

Who,  with  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair? 

O  glowing  hearts:    He  saw  them  yet, 

Glistening,  widely-opened,  wet  .  .  . 

A  fountain  in  a  garden  pool 

Shot  a  slim  shaft  and  spattered  cool, 

And  on  this  ever-changing  shaft 

A  wonderful  white  ball  danced  and  laughed  .  . 

Illusions  lost  .  .  .  could  he  no  more 

Build  castles  on  infinity's  shore?  .  .  . 

Sleep  stole  upon  him  as  he  smiled, 


Dust  in  Starlight 


And  in  his  dreams  he  ran  a  child. 


Outside  his  room  a  robin  sang. 

Sun  to  his  heart  shot  gleaming  pang. 

And  now  the  grass  lay  cool  and  sweet 

And  glistening  for  his  early  feet. 

The  sunlight  on  his  eyes  was  warm, 

Dearer  it  was  for  last  night's  storm, 

Hazily  on  the  town  it  lay, 

Shimmering  gold  on  softest  grey; 

While  joyously  he  walked  along 

Feeling  the  deep  world  shake  with  song. 

His  heart,  like  early  morning  earth, 

Bloomed  fragrant  now  with  strange  new  birth; 

Lilac-hedge  and  willow-tree 

Trembled  within  with  fiery  glee, 

Feeling  the  music  of  this  sun 

Through  leaf  and  blossom  subtly  run  .  .  . 

Laughter  rose  upward  in  him  light; 

The  spiders,  busy  through  the  night, 

Had  spun  grey  webs  on  hedge  and  lawn; 

O  lovely  world  revealed  by  dawn!  .  .  . 

His  heart  beat  rapidly.     He  went 

Through  this  bright  world  with  wonderment, 

[137] 


Nocturne   of   Remembered   Spring 

Feeling  a  softness  in  this  air, 

A  tenderness  to  heal  despair, — 

Soft  light  like  broken  waters  falling; 

Song  of  birds;  low  voices  calling; 

Music  bubbling  from  deep  springs, 

And  flash  of  sun  on  dewy  wings. 

Swiftly  he  went.     Familiar  places 

Lifted  serene  and  joyous  faces. 

This  tree  he  knew :  this  hedge,  this  stone ; 

Through  his  own  heart  these  leaves  had  grown. 

Sweetly  these  things  now  spoke  of  her, 

They  gave  him  news,  they  set  astir, 

With  gleams  and  perfumes  faintly  whirled, 

A  dim,  a  half -forgotten  world  .  .  . 

Came  she  not  forth  in  these  things  so 

To  meet  her  lover,  let  him  know 

That  she  was  now,  as  always,  his?  .  .  . 

His  heart  brimmed  up  with  melodies  .  .  . 

He  climbed  the  hill  with  pang  of  fear 

Lest  somehow  she  should  not  be  here  .  .  . 

There  was  her  window !  opened  wide. 

Someone  was  moving  there  inside  .  .  . 

Trying  to  call  his  voice  twice  broke 

Before  the  simple  name  he  spoke; 


Dust   in  Starlight 

And  then  she  came, — O  wind  of  spring! — 

Making  his  pulses  pour  and  sing 

And  clamor  and  cry,  while  with  slow  hand 

Doubting,  she  drew  the  latch,  to  stand 

Shrinking  and  sweet,  no  blame  to  say, 

Against  the  wall,  whole  leagues  away  .  .  . 

She,  with  blue  eyes,  the  golden-haired, 

For  whom  first  love  had  been  declared  .  .  . 

Her  hair,  her  eyes, — so  sweet  these  were 

That  hushed  and  long  he  looked  at  her, 

Nor  understood  how  he  had  done 

Such  hurt,  such  cruelty  to  one 

So  beautiful,  so  warm,  so  wise, 

So  luminous  with  light  of  skies. 

Pain  swelled  his  heart.     The  past  was  dead. 

He  kissed  her  twice,  with  no  word  said. 

This  love,  it  seemed,  was  free  of  lust, 

Rose  winged  and  singing  out  of  dust!  .  .  . 

O  world  be  ever  dark  with  rain 

Or  be  forever  mute  with  pain, — 

To  these  once  more  was  sunlight  given, 

They  walked  on  earth  and  thought  it  heaven. 


[139] 


Nocturne  of  Remembered  Spring 

Thus  dust  in  starlight  had  its  dream: 
Thinking  to  hold  to  some  faint  beam 
Of  far-off,  holier,  higher  things, 
Be  borne  from  dust  by  dream  of  wings. 


[140] 


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